Courage Under Fire
by Luna Goldsun
Summary: COMPLETE(SLASH) A serial killer is on the loose in Dakota, and in order to catch him, Static Shock and Gear need to enlist the help of...Hotstreak? Fur's gonna fly, and maybe they'll all get out of this alive...VRF and slash for all! ;)
1. Default Chapter

Summary: There's a killer on the loose, and in order to bring him to justice, Static and Gear need to enlist the help of…Hotstreak! Will eventually be SLASH!

Rating: PG-13, maybe R in later chapters. For those who have read my other works, this should prove to be one of my shorter fics.

Warnings: disturbing themes, a little language.

Category: Mystery, Angst, Romance

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys—WB and DC comics owns them. I'm just borrowing them for now ;)

Author's Notes: my first foray into Static Shock fan fiction! Please be kind…;

* * *

Chapter 1: A New Alliance

_April 16th, 9:30 am. Dakota Penitentiary _

The guards were even more jumpy than usual. Then again, it wasn't very often when a high-profile inmate receives a visit from someone like this. The armed officers of the maximum security prison straightened up as the warden, a tall, thin, graying man escorted the esteemed quest through the necessary checkpoints. The visitor was stripped of anything that could have possibly been a weapon. The warden sent him an apologetic look, saying that given the types of inmates, they couldn't be too careful.

The visitor was finally led to a separate room, and took a seat in front of a counter with a thick glass pane, understandably bullet-proof. There was a telephone receiver to his left and he watched and waited patiently. On the other side of the glass, a door opened, and an inmate wearing the orange jumpsuit uniform was led in, his hands handcuffed in front of him.

He was a handsome man, make no mistake, with his sun-kissed skin, well-toned muscles from hours of intense workouts, and an easy stride like a cat on the prowl matched perfectly with the cat-like grin on his face, and the longish flaming red hair. He took his seat opposite the visitor and waited as the handcuffs were removed. He picked up the receiver on his end and leaned forward conspiringly.

The visitor mirrored his actions, and stared him down, his dark eyes meeting the inmate's green orbs that shone like polished jade.

"Well," the inmate said, "Static Shock, to what do I owe the honor?"

"Hotstreak," the super hero said, "I see doing hard time hasn't changed you much." Static had matured since his early years—now he was taller, stronger, had better usage of his powers, and, as many female fans had noticed, he had grown, if possible, more handsome. The uniform he was accustomed to wearing was still the same, with a few helpful alterations thanks to his "partner in crime" Gear.

"I can still whip your ass in a fight, make no mistake of that," the redhead sneered. Hotstreak's attitude hadn't changed so much, either. He was still impulsive and prone to frequent fights once the embers of his temper were stoked. Though he had grown his hair out, and was in the process of growing a goatee, he still looked the same as he always had. Just now, he had that satisfied smirk on his face, and he had become much smoother in talk and manners.

Prison had in fact changed him more than even he knew. After the second Big Bang, through some weird twist of fate, he and Ebon had separated and retained their earlier abilities. Ebon later went on to be a crime lord, yet was now doing time in a California prison, and was also given the cure for the Bang, so now he was no different from his fellow man.

Hotstreak had kept his powers on the other hand, and offered, in exchange for an early release, that he be used as a part of a scientific study. No one objected, and scientists had been able to learn a lot from his cooperation.

Now, however, Hotstreak would find himself cooperating in a different fashion.

"Hotstreak," Static said again, his voice strong, resolute, and smooth, "I…We need your help."

"_My_ help? Well ain't that somethin'…"

"You've heard about the Dakota Destroyer, haven't you?"

The red-head looked bewildered for a moment. "Yeah, I've heard some things. Why, what's the deal?"

"We can't find him."

"And I'll somehow be able to help? How? I've been in here since I was 18, I'm 25 now…"

"Twenty-six…your birthday was yesterday," Static corrected.

"Was it? Oh, wait…you're right. See," he leaned his head against his knuckle, chuckling mirthlessly, "No one visits anymore, so I forget some things."

"But you've heard about the Destroyer," the hero pointed out.

"All I know is what the newspapers know—and that's all _any_ of us know in here!" Hotstreak countered. "If you have any leads, go ahead and follow them. I can't help you."

"Yes you can." Static sighed and hung his head, disbelieving what he was about to say, "Hotstreak, we've heard from the various police files that the Dakota Destroyer is a serial killer, whose methods and cruelty rival that of Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, and the Unabomber _combined_. He's dangerous, and has a vast knowledge of the underworld."

Hotstreak ran a hand over his face and sighed through his nose. "I'd like to help you—no, really, I would—but I haven't been on the streets in eight years, and too much has changed. All the old haunts are probably long gone."

"The old station is still there."

"Seriously? God, that takes me back…" he leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "It still being used?"

"Mostly by homeless people and runaways. It's sort of become a half-way house to freedom for some."

"Freedom, yeah that's what it used to be about. Then we had to steal to get what we needed…But you don't want to hear about that, do you?"

"Not really. I want to know one thing: will you help?"

"I still don't know how I can help."

"You know him."

"Who?"

"The Destroyer—you know him personally."

"I do?" he looked confused, and it wasn't such an unflattering look on him. "Since when?"

"Guess who?" Static looked a little sly and gave Hotstreak a knowing look. The redhead grimaced and groaned.

"Oh _HELL_ no…You're kidding."

"Wish I was."

"Well how the hell did he get out of the clink?"

"Your guess is as good as mine—from what I'd heard, he had been killed in a fight."

"That's what I heard too—either he escaped or was killed, I dunno which one, though." The inmate leaned forward. "And you can't track him down? That's weird. Wait, he's got a brother doesn't he?"

"Adam Evans," Static assented. "And he has no idea, and wants nothing to do with the investigation—he's got a family now, and doesn't want them caught in the crossfire."

"Can't blame him. But yeah…and you've talked to the other Meta-humans? The rest of the old gang?"

"All of them. The only one who seemed to be the most help was Teresa."

"Who?"

"Talon."

"Oh. So her real name's Teresa? Huh, didn't know that."

"What," the hero said with a smug grin, "Don't keep in touch with your old buddies?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here, breathing. So," he balanced the phone between the crook of his neck and stretched his arms behind his head, "You think that because I know him, I'd help you find Ebon and bring him to justice?"

"That's the original plan."

"Why should I?"

"Because I can get you parole."

Hotstreak straightened up and looked serious for the first time in a long time, "Don't kid me, Static—can you really promise me this?"

"I can pull a few strings; maybe even get you out early."

"How early?"

"You were supposed to be in for twenty years, right?"

"Right."

"You can be out of here in a year."

The news stunned him and he stared out into space, obviously thinking about it. It didn't take long. "I'll do it, on one condition."

"And what's that?" Static knew him well enough to know that whatever he was going to ask wasn't going to come cheap.

"You let me out to help you, and I need to be totally free—no jumpsuit, no handcuffs, all about trust here."

"You haven't given me much of a reason to trust you."

He feigned an innocent expression. "What? I've been a good boy…"

"Mm-hmm, and I bet that what some of the other guys in here say, too." He said with a humorous smile.

Hotstreak's expression hardened, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he answered quickly. "Understand that if this is to work out, you need to know that if you try anything—and I mean anything—you'll be spending more time in here than twenty years. The state is giving you a second chance, and I'm giving you a second chance. Don't screw this up, Francis."

The redhead saw how serious the situation was. He hung his head and let long wisps of red hair fall into his eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them quickly.

"Deal—you call the shots, I follow the rules."

"And I can hold you to that promise?"

"Hell, if it means I get out early," he grinned like the Cheshire cat, "You can hold me to anything."

* * *

_Dakota Penitentiary, 11:44_

Static smirked as he watched Hotstreak put on his old clothes. The redheaded young man was struggling to fit into the same clothes he had worn as a teenager, the classic red shirt now faded and two sizes too small, and he had no need for a belt for his pants anymore.

"I didn't think I'd gained that much weight…" he muttered. Static crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, smirking triumphantly.

"Everybody gains weight after high school—haven't you ever heard of the freshman fifteen?"

"Freshman _fifty_ by the looks of you," Hotstreak shot back, visibly smarting from the verbal blow. "What have you been eating?"

Static rolled his eyes. He had expected this. If Hotstreak couldn't fight him outright, the least he would try was annoy him. Their agreement included refraining from physical battles. Which meant that verbal battles were left wide open. The superhero, though he hoped and prayed that this 'hot-head' wouldn't be too much of a pain, knew that whatever happened was inevitable.

"Healthy foods—which is what you'll be having from now on until we find the killer."

"Health food? You're kidding right? You expect me to eat rabbit food?"

"Would you rather be eating the same things you've been eating since you got here? And besides, Gear's not too bad of a cook."

"Marvelous," he said sarcastically, finally able to fit into his khaki pants. "So I'm going to be living with Batman and Robin from now on. Oh, everyone's gonna _love_ this."

* * *

_Justice League Watchtower, 12:35 am EST_

"I still think this was a bad idea," Gear said later. Hotstreak had returned with Static back to the Watchtower of the Justice League, had eaten, showered and went to bed without event. Safely locked away in his room, he posed no more a threat than a basketful of cuddly puppies on Christmas morning.

Static took off the mask and placed it on the table in front of him. "I agree Rich, but what else are we going to do? Not even Bruce knows what's going on—and he's the world's greatest detective for God's sake!"

Richie Foley was hard at work, as usual, on Backpack, version 6.0. Like the two superheroes, their equipment had also evolved along with them. Backpack was now able to do things fifty years ahead of its time, thanks to the genius of its maker. Richie had taken off his helmet once he thought it was safe, and was twisting a screw inside the mechanical device.

"Ebon's gotten craftier, I think. Somehow, I just don't think he has the capability to do these crimes," he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"He's got the rap sheet," Virgil Hawkins pointed out.

"This is true, but he's never actually killed anyone. I guess that's what's hard to believe. And he doesn't exactly strike me as the type of creative guy to do those things he does to his victims."

"Yeah, I know what you mean—creativity isn't one of his strong suits."

"So do you really trust Hotstreak?"

"We have no choice—who else knows how Ebon's mind works? The two of them were conjoined for God knows how long, so…"

"You think that they may have shared mental data?"

"Maybe—it's my theory."

He also had other theories, but they would have to wait until Hotstreak was awake. For the time being, all they could do was wait.

* * *

Please Read and Review!

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	2. Chapter 2: Confessions

Chapter 2: Confessions

A/N: (does a little happy dance) Glad you guys like it so far! As for a pairing…I was thinking V/F, but I'm not sure if I should stick with _status quo_ and make it V/R. Or how about V/R/F! Fun for all! ;)

Disclaimer: I dun own them—otherwise I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.

* * *

Hotstreak awoke hours later and didn't seem at all perturbed that someone had laid a blanket over him as he slept. Granted, he was still quite groggy, so not much was registering at this point in time. For a moment, he wondered why his bed was so comfortable, and why he wasn't wearing his orange jumpsuit, but realization didn't fully set in until he opened the blinds at the window and was met by a void of darkness. 

With a surprised yelp, he jumped backwards, tripping and falling on his rump. As he rubbed at the smarting posterior, his mind finally opened the doors to his memory banks and he was left with a familiar 'Oh _yeah_!' feeling. Immediately following this, he felt really stupid. How in the world could he not remember all that had happened yesterday?

Speaking of which, was it day or night up here? How did they keep time if there were no time zones? And why was he even _worried_ about it?

With an agonized sigh he stood up and proceeded to make himself decent for the most part. He threw on his shirt and pants and walked over to the door.

_They probably locked it_, he thought, pressing against it. A motion sensor blinked to life and the door slid open. _Or maybe not..._

He entered the main part of the small apartment reserved for the superhero pair. He smirked. _Pair indeed…_ Sure, he'd had his theories about Gear and Static for years. He'd read every single article, absorbed everything that was said about them on the news, and scrutinized every photo of the pair almost to the point of obsession. He could tell one thing about them, and he had reached this conclusion over a long period of time, and after observing the goings-on in the prison. Yes, Hotstreak was almost certain. He just needed definite proof…

He found a note on the small coffee table. He picked it up and read over it.

"_Hotstreak, _

_"Went out on patrol, should be back by noon. Plenty to eat, help yourself, don't mess up the kitchen. You are locked into the apartment. You are under heavy surveillance and there are armed guards at the door, so don't try to get out. This is not a threat—it's a promise._

_"—S.S."_

The last line stuck out to him. What the hell did that mean? There was a post script: _"New clothes will be provided for you."_

Beautiful. The redhead took a look around the apartment—it was like a usual bachelor pad, furnished in much the same way. The only difference was the abundance of technology not normally seen in normal bachelor pads. Apparently, Gear kept himself pretty busy—there were spare parts from various electronic equipment, ranging from the mundane (A waffle iron) to the not-so ordinary (if the disassembled M-16 was any indication).

Intrigued, he walked over and his green eyes roved over the machinery spread out like a runner over the dining table. They made use of the little space they had. After a time, he became well aware of the layout of the apartment.

Upon entering, visitors would be faced with the living room and television, as well as monitors that displayed current news and updates from around the world, and even the universe in some cases. There was the large sofa and "love seat" (he smirked again at the mention of the name), both dark denim in color, sitting adjacent to each other, with the coffee table in front of them. Over to the left of the main entrance was the small kitchenette, complete with oven, stove, compact fridge, and microwave sitting just above the range. Opposite this was the spare room that was used for storage, but had been converted into a bedroom for Hotstreak's arrival. Past the kitchenette ran a short hallway, where he would find Static and Gear's rooms opposite each other, and the full bath at the end.

All in all, it was what some people would call "cozy". Hotstreak shrugged as if to say "whatever" and accepted Static's offer to help himself to some food. He found some cereal sure enough, and settled down on the couch, bowl in hand, munching thoughtfully.

The clock on the wall read 10:34 am. He had little less than two hours to himself. Spooning now-soggy cereal into his mouth, he allowed himself to reflect on the past.

Prison had changed him. Before being stuck in the state penitentiary for eight years, he hadn't done much thinking. Probably what got him in prison in the first place…But after hearing his sentence, he figured that since he had nothing else to do, he got involved in some activities. He got caught up in learning—he only read because he was bored…_VERY_ bored. The end result was him reading all the books that were on the state's reading list for high schools and college literature classes; in short, he had become a thinker…but mostly a schemer.

Sure, he tried sports, but he was labeled as being "overly competitive" after a brawl over a tag football game. His only defense was that the guy had tackled him outright—and he needed to be taught a lesson in following rules and protocol.

That was the thing about prison, and Hotstreak had learned it quickly: either you beat somebody up on your first day, or become somebody's bitch. Fortunately, he had chosen the former. Though he felt a little guilty that the guy he'd messed up would never be able to use his left arm ever again, it solidified his position as a tough hard-ass. He preferred it that way—nobody messed with him. Not that they would have, considering he still had his powers.

His powers!

He shot up from his slouch and put the bowl down. Concentrating, he could feel the rush of heat pooling down his arms to his hands, but instead of getting the fireballs forming in his hands as he expected, he ended up burning himself.

_What the hell!_

He looked down at his wrists and realized that there were bracelets on his arms—leaden ones.

"Shit."

He had seen them before—these were specially made to put a stopper on his abilities. Static—or Gear—must have put them before they left. _Sonuvabitch…_

Wasn't part of their agreement about trust? Okay, they didn't have any real reason to trust him—but he was desperate. He was getting older, and the older you got, the worse your position became. Every day, younger and younger guys came in, and oftentimes they were stronger. It would only be a matter of time before he was beaten—and he _refused_ to let that happen.

Hotstreak would have done anything to get out—short of escaping. He learned early on through conditioned-response learning that good behavior produced positive results. He stayed out of fights, and he was rewarded—extended exercise time. Sitting in a cell all day was not very fun.

After a long time, he had noticed that he was doing the opposite of what the meta-humans stood for: he was conforming to society's rules. Not that it mattered anymore—most of the old gang had been given the cure anyway. As far as he knew, he and Static and Gear were the only bang-babies left.

Settling back onto the couch, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. He tried not to think, but that hope eluded him like dust on the wind. His eyes caught a small bit of furniture off to his right, along the wall of his room. It was a low bookcase, stuffed with volumes, encyclopedias, and various smaller books.

The redhead's green eyes roved over titles from where he sat. Most of them were computer manuals, or manuals for how to rewire a whole computer network. He saw some mentions of electricity, but most of it was law books, old college physics textbooks, and a few political science hardbacks. He saw the nestled in a corner, there was a hard-bound illustrated edition of "The Da Vinci Code".

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. Great _book…finished that one in a weekend_. Seeing no other alternative, he walked over, picked up the novel and began rereading, the familiar words registering again, old meanings coming back to him, the illustrations providing a clearer view and understanding. He marveled at the way each and every single clue tied in with another—he was smart enough to know it was fiction, but part of him, the part that loved the idea of a conspiracy, knew there had to be more to the story. He knew that, just like this case with the Destroyer, there was more than met the eye.

He heard someone at the door and he scrambled to put the volume back. Hastily shoving it back in its place, he leaped over the back of the sofa, settled into it and feigned sleep just as the door opened.

"I saw that," Static said as he entered. The redhead feigned innocence—needless to say, it didn't work.

"Saw what?"

"The lunge for the bookshelf—I'm not stupid."

Hotstreak shrugged. "Could've fooled me."

Obviously, he was not in the mood for it right now. Static Shock looked absolutely exhausted, if his wearied posture and tired-looking eyes were any indication. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling despairingly. "You find the food alright?"

"Yeah."

"You touch anything?" his tone became accusatory.

"I thought this was all about trust?"

"It is," he agreed.

"Then why don't you trust me?"

"I do trust you," he countered.

"Prove it."

"The door was unlocked the whole time."

Hotstreak turned around and fixed him with a stare. "What?"

Static smiled. "The door—the note said it was locked, but it wasn't. I trusted you to read the note and follow directions, and you did. Good job."

"You—" he was beside himself. _What the…? That lying, twisted…_ He saw the glint of mischief in those dark eyes, the same mischievousness he had known since the first big bang.

…_Brilliant, _diabolically_ brilliant mind…_

"I got the case files right here for the Dakota Destroyer—we'll get some lunch and go over it, just so we know what we're up against."

"We know what we're up against—you already have a suspect."

"But there's not enough evidence to convict him. We need to look at this from all sides. And since you know Ebon, your input is appreciated."

"I still don't think that I can be any help," he pointed out, following the superhero towards the door. Even though he couldn't see his face, he knew Static was smiling.

"That's where you're wrong. Come on, there are some people I want you to meet."

Hotstreak stopped dead. _He can't mean…_

* * *

The flame-haired meta-human's eyes grew wide when they entered the meeting hall. His green eyes roved over the huge crowd around him, all of them superheroes. He swallowed in nervousness. _Heroes, and all of them hate my guts…_

He locked eyes with a few. He recognized them instantly. _There's Aqua Man, the Flash, Super Girl…hey, the Green Arrow! Where's Green Lantern, Wonder Woman and all of them?_

His questions were quickly answered when Static abruptly stopped. Hotstreak's eyes lifted up to lock with those of the most famous superhero of all. The redhead could barely breathe. "Superman…" he whispered filled with awe.

The Man of Steel smiled politely and extended his hand. "Welcome to the Watchtower, Francis Stone. Here, you are among friends."

"Hope you don't mind," Hotstreak said slowly, nodding his head at Superman's outstretched hand, "but I know all about your strength, and I'd like to keep my right hand—if that's cool with you."

"Don't worry, I have good control."

Hotstreak still looked dubious, but an encouraging nod from Static urged him to accept the handshake. His mind reeled. _I'm shaking hands with the Man of Steel—oh my God. This can not be happening!_

Superman waved his arm in an arch, indicating the whole room. "We are all here to help your transition here. While you are up here, there will be a few precautions, and a few denied liberties, but overall, you will be free up here."

"'Denied liberties?'" he asked. "What does that mean?"

"What Superman is saying," Static said with a forced smile, obviously not liking what he was about to say. "Is that you are free to go wherever you want to up here, but you need to respect people's privacy—any locked doors are supposed to stay locked, got it?"

"Sure—no problem."

"Also," the Man of Steel added. "You've no doubt discovered the lead bracelets?"

"Yeah, that caught me by surprise," he admitted.

"They are there to ensure your safety."

"_My_ safety?"

"It's simple, really—"

"You screw up and attack one of us, and we won't hesitate to retaliate," a deep and ominous voice said. Hotstreak froze. He knew that voice—it was the voice that haunted the minds of all the criminals that had been transferred from Arkam, in Gotham City. The voice of the Dark Knight…the Batman.

He advanced like a shadow, towering over the redhead and glaring down. "I don't care what the circumstances might be—you attack any of us, and I will show no mercy. Are we clear?"

He swallowed hard before answering, "Crystal."

"Easy, Batman," Superman said, trying to pacify the other hero. Batman cast one more distrustful glance in Hotstreak's direction, then stepped back.

Superman went on to explain the other security purposes that the meta-human would be under: 24/7 surveillance, the leaden bracelets to hold back his powers, as well as having a tracking device injected into his arm. The microscopic tracker was only an added precaution, and had been put to use by the Justice League on their own members in cases of intense danger—the could keep track of one another easier, in the event of a colossal emergency.

Hotstreak would have struggled against them, but as much as he hated needles and any injection, pissing off _these_ people was a _bad_ idea. He went along with it for now, and he even said to Superman that so long as the League kept their end of the deal, he would behave, and maybe one day become a model citizen. The Man of Steel looked skeptical, but smiled nonetheless.

Later, Static led Hotstreak back to the apartment, and he was led right back into his room Static instructed him to stay there and closed the door.

Half an hour later, the door to the room slid open, but instead of Static, Hotstreak was shocked to see none other than the Martian Manhunter. Hotstreak had never really seen an alien before—especially up close.

The alien nodded once to him then stepped aside, motioning him towards the door. "We are ready for you."

* * *

Static didn't like this—at all. He didn't like having to work with the fiery bang-baby. He didn't like having him stay in the Watchtower. Hell, he didn't like having him stay in the _same apartment_ as he and Gear. But most of all, he hated not being able to find the Dakota Destroyer. So for this purpose and this purpose only, was he allowing himself the patience to work with him. 

_It's the lesser of two evils_, he told himself. _But I _really_ wish I had the choice of neither._

J'onn entered the interrogation room with Hotstreak and bade him sit in the one empty chair at the large table, then the martian departed, leaving the three of them alone. Static looked at a long glass mirror on the wall adjacent to where he was sitting, knowing that on the other side of the glass, Batman, Superman and J'onn were watching and waiting for any break in the case.

He focused back to the task at hand. Gear handed him a manila folder which the redhead promptly opened and looked over. Static felt himself getting nervous, but he couldn't quite place why.

_Impatience, you're impatient…you don't have the perp, and its driving you crazy. Just because Hotstreak's taking his sweet time doesn't mean you need to quirk out on him_. Though that thought was tempting…

The redhead seemed to be sharing similar thoughts. _Why is he staring at me like that? Its kind of…queer…nah…there's no way. Okay, okay…focus…Dakota Destroyer—killed four people so far, each one found naked, having a strange symbol painted on their bodies._ He looked at crime scene photos and winced. _Jesus—this is one sick fuck we're dealing with._

Hotstreak had seen his fair share of disturbing things in his life, but this one had to take the cake. The bodies of the four victims lay contorted in grotesque shapes, naked as the day they were born. Blood was everywhere, spattered against walls, staining the ground, flowing freely as water.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" the redhead whispered.

"Tell me about it," Gear replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Anything look familiar?"

"Not really, I recognize a couple street corners."

"I'll bet," Static couldn't help but smirk. Hotstreak sent him a hate-laden glance and continued.

"Looks like this one was near Cornerstone and Ripley," he pointed at a picture of a man in his late fifties. The horror of the picture and the monstrous way of which his remains were left behind bears repeating.

"Cornerstone and Holloway," Gear corrected, grimacing at the photo, "But it was pretty close."

"Have you been keeping track of where they were murdered? Like, on a map or something?" For someone who had spent the past eight years in a federal prison, he was certainly on top of things. That made Static even more nervous. _He knows more than he's saying. He's hiding something from us._

"Good thing you asked," Static said motioning to a glass panel behind him. A map of Dakota had been projected onto it, and little red dots marked the places where the four victims had been found. "So far we can't see any real connection—they're too far apart."

"No, there is a connection," the redhead said. Static and Gear looked surprised. Hotstreak sighed and shook his head almost pityingly. "Those are key meeting places for drug dealers. The Destroyer has to be a dealer. I'll bet the victims were crack-addicts."

"How…" Gear started. "How did you know that?"

"Wild guess," he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "There was a chick that was killed too, right? She was prostitute—had to be. No self-respecting girl would be caught dead in that part of town." He looked strangely at the two heroes. "Jesus, for guys who spent their whole lives there, you'd think you'd know this stuff."

"Which is why you're here—and how the hell did you know she was a…"

"Again, wild guess. I'm telling you, Static," he pointed at himself, "I'm the Sherlock Holmes of the streets. Ask me anything about the underground circa eight years ago, and I'll tell you what I know."

"Since when has your vocabulary been so good?" Gear accused.

He would have given a witty and language-filled retort, had he not been given a 'small' electric shock. "OW! Dammit, that hurt!"

"It'll hurt even more if you don't behave."

Realization dawned on him. "They're letting you use electric shock on me? What the fucking hell!"

Static grinned fully now. "Gives you more of an incentive now, doesn't it? Because now you can't fight back…"

"It's one-sided anyway. I would have thought heroes had more honor than to pick on those that can't fight back."

As much as it stung, Static gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. "So it was in drug-dealing areas. And one of the victims was a prostitute—what else can you tell us?"

"Ebon's not your man."

Static and Gear shared a side-long glance. Both instinctively knew how the heroes on the other side of the glass were reacting to _this_ allegation. "What makes you say that?"

"Ebon was a thief—not a drug dealer. He had enough honor to not sell death to kids."

Static placed both hands palms down on the table and leaned against it, his dark eyes staring straight into the jade orbs of the ex-convict. "What makes you so sure?"

"He said so himself—all those years ago."

"What'd he say…in his own words?"

"Exactly as I said it: '_I have enough honor to not sell death to kids'_. He may have been a thief, kidnapper, and extortionist, but he's not a murderer, in the first, second or third degree. He swore he'd never turn out like…" he cut himself off suddenly. Static caught it immediately.

"Never turn out like…what?"

"Forget it." Hotstreak was covering something up.

"Tell me now."

"What if I refuse?"

"I'll call Batman in and you can tell him."

"Go for it."

Static blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said go for it—but I'm not telling him either."

"Not telling him what?"

Hotstreak was as stubborn as his hair was red. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "A promise is a promise, and I can't say."

"Static," Gear whispered, "Give him a minute."

"We don't _have_ a minute, Gear. Someone could be getting killed out there while we're up here joking around with this guy!"

"Wait for it."

Perplexed, though inwardly seething, Static sat down opposite the redhead, glaring past him at the glass panel, where he was sure the others were watching. He sighed wearily and shrugged as if to say, "What else do you want me to do?"

"Hotstreak," Gear started to say, "Or do you prefer Francis? Maybe F-Stop?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Alright, Francis, you say you can't tell us something—does it have anything to do with the whole 'honor among thieves'?"

"No—it had everything to do with knowing when to keep your mouth shut."

"Oh…so you're saying," he ventured slowly, "That Ebon found out somethingsupposedly damaging about you, and then you found out something about him, and both of you agreed not to tell anyone for the sake of reputation?"

Hotstreak and Static sent the genius superhero identical bewildered looks. The redhead's jaw had even dropped. Gear smiled triumphantly, knowing he had hit the nail on the head. "Okay, I was right—so…" he began pacing the room slowly. "Both of you held incriminating information about the other—an embarrassing story maybe…" he trailed off. Something in the green eyes of the interviewee told him that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Or something horrible…that may have happened in your childhoods?"

"Stop." It was a direct order, but it didn't come from Hotstreak. Static stood quickly and rounded about, so that he could whisper something to Gear. Hotstreak watched worriedly, as Gear suddenly sent him a surprised look. _Does he know that I hate hospitals?_

By the look on his face, he guessed he hadn't. This must have been the first time Static had told him about that day on the island.

'_This is a hospital…I don't do hospitals…' _

Why hadn't Static said anything before now? He sent his questioning gaze towards the hero in question, who only looked back at him with a look that said 'it'll be alright.'

Gear sighed and looked a little uneasy before continuing. "Okay, moving right along…"

* * *

Hours later found an exhausted Virgil Hawkins in bed. The whole day had been grueling for him. And what made it worse was the fact that his greatest enemy was sleeping only a few yards away. 

Virgil had never considered himself the type of person to hold a grudge, but when memories of F-Stop's bullying resurfaced, he was filled with such anger he couldn't control. _Stop it_, he told himself_. That was high school—both of you are grown adults and can settle matters in a purely adult way_.

But that didn't help matters. Tossing and turning for a few more minutes, he groaned in frustration and got out of bed. Maybe a visit back to Political Science 101 would help him get to sleep—he'd always slept through that class back in college, and had still passed with flying colors. Rereading the textbook wasn't such a bad idea—it had always put him to sleep before.

He reached for his mask, just in case, and walked out the door. Clad in only a black tank and dark blue pajama bottoms, he walked out only to find there was a light on in the living room.

Hotstreak was up, and supposedly he had the same original idea. "The Da Vinci Code" lay open on his lap and he seemed thoroughly engrossed in it.

"Good book?" Virgil asked, now disguised as Static.

Hotstreak jumped visibly, muttering a stifled curse of surprise. "Jesus, Static, give a guy a heart attack…" he paused for a moment. "Why are you up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Oh, so insomnia's a crime now?"

Static held up his hands signaling defeat. "Look, I'm tired, but I can't sleep. All I want to do a little reading, and go to bed—and I would like for it to be quiet."

"Good luck," he answered, getting back to his reading. He chuckled suddenly.

"What's so funny?" he asked. The redhead pointed to a place on the page he was reading. "Teabing—funniest guy, too bad about the end though…"

"Yeah, tragedy," he agreed, pulling the old textbook out. Flipping through some chapters, he asked aloud, "Fall of Communism, or Economics of the state?"

"Economics," Hotstreak answered. "The first one actually sounds interesting."

"True." He settled on the couch adjacent to the other bang baby and started reading. He kept feeling the other's eyes on him. "That's really unsettling, you know, watching me like that."

"I never thought Static Shock to be someone who read."

"How else do you get through college?"

"Where's your diploma?"

"My room—which, by the way, is off limits to you. Gear's room, too."

"I gotcha—I wouldn't let anyone on my turf either, especially if I was hiding a secret."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you hiding secrets?"

"A couple. But they wouldn't interest you."

"Really?"

"Quiet—reading," he cut him off, avoiding the subject. Static rolled his eyes. "I'm going to figure you out eventually, you know."

"All you know about me is my phobia of hospitals, which is a perfectly legitimate fear. You can't hold that against me."

"Sure I can—telling everyone that Hotstreak is afraid…"

"Everyone's afraid of at least something," he said suddenly. "Fear of heights, snakes, spiders, or whatever—everyone has a fear. So what's yours?"

"I'm not telling you."

"And I'm not telling you mine, either."

Here they were, at a standpoint, a stalemate. Neither wanted to give in, yet neither wanted to continue. They knew there was something about the other that was unnerving, and both were determined to figure out what it was. Static more so than Hotstreak.

"Were you sick?"

"What?"

"When you were in the hospital…were you sick?"

"Why do you care?"

"I just do."

"Since when?"

"Can we _please_ have a decent conversation?" he was arriving at his wit's end. Just as he was about to give up and go back to bed, his question was answered.

"Yeah, I was sick—very sick. Doctors didn't think I'd pull through."

Static's eyes regarded him a new way. Without meaning to, he started imagining a much younger Francis Stone, lying in a hospital bed with IVs sticking into his arms. It was a sad picture, seeing a small, frail little boy suffering like that, weakened and lonely, with no one around to care for him. "What was it?"

"Pneumonia, with complications. I was pretty weak as a kid, so anything that was going around got to me first, and it hit me hard."

"Like the flu?"

"I got the flu once when I was five, and it nearly killed me. I was lucky they had vaccines left."

"And the time in the hospital, the one with the longest run?"

"It was hell—nobody really cared about me. All the doctors and nurses hated me for some reason."

"Can't imagine…"

"Just so you know," he said harshly, "I was unconscious most of the time, or too weak to do anything. The doctor never found out what was really wrong with me—they only knew the high fevers, the nightmares and hallucinations were more than just a bad virus."

"How long were you there?"

"Two and a half years. I was ten when they let me out. You know," he dog-eared the page he was reading, closed the book and looked Static right in the eye. "The only thing at that hospital that kept me going was a paramedic—she was an angel. Sweetest lady in the world. She used to call me Frankie—the only one who will _ever_ get away with it. Every time she came through the Emergency room, she'd always stop by my room to see how I was doing. Sometimes she'd sneak in some candy or a drawing pad or something like that. If I had a mother, I hoped that she would have been just like Miss Jean."

Static nearly choked. "M-Miss Jean?"

Hotstreak looked at him strangely. "Yeah…Jean Hawkins."

* * *

A/N: O.O whoa, didn't see that comin', did ya? Remember to Read and Review:) 


	3. Chapter 3: Unaffected

Chapter 3: Unaffected

Disclaimer: Still don't own them.

Warnings: There is **slash** in this chapter, so for all Slash fans: **Let the good times roll! **0)

* * *

_The Apartment, 1:45 am.(cont.)_

If Hotstreak had suddenly transfigured into Ebon at that moment, Static wouldn't have been more surprised. _He knew my mother…my mother knew him…there's no way._

"If you knew Jean Hawkins, then did you…"

"I heard she was killed in the Dakota Riots all those years back, yeah." Hotstreak bowed his head in reverence. He must have really cared for her, because Static saw the sadness in those green orbs. He'd seen that sadness many times before, and most of those times he had seen in the same look of sadness in his own mirror. He knew the grief of loss more than anything else.

"She was the mother I never had," Hotstreak continued, "I never knew my real mother, I think she died in a car accident when I was three. It was always me and my dad, and he was a less than perfect role model—he was never around, I really had to take care of myself. I grew up faster than most kids."

"And the gangs?"

"I wasn't the kind of kid who made friends easily. My life was like…what was it called…Social Darwinism?"

"Damn—you really have done a lot of reading."

He shrugged, brushing it off. "When you're bored and no one wants to talk to you, what else is there?"

"So…social Darwinism?"

"Yeah, kill or be killed, take or be taken—survival of the fittest. And I wasn't about to let myself be taken or killed. It was tough, and there are times I look back on and wonder how I survived."

"But how does…Miss Jean tie into this?"

"She gave me the little bit of morality and hope that kept me going. Sometimes, her memory just wasn't enough. I felt like I was caught in a void…"

"Depression?"

"Must have been—there were times, plenty of them, when I wondered why I bothered living. Death had to be better than living in my personal hell. Besides, if I had died, maybe Mom and Miss Jean would meet me at the pearly gates…" he paused and frowned, "that is, if I get that far."

"You will."

Hotstreak looked up at Static, his gaze full of wonder. "What makes you so sure?"

"Everyone has a chance of forgiveness and repentance. This thing, helping us with finding this murderer, this may be your chance to redeem yourself."

"Maybe." He fell silent for a while, and Static thought that would be the end of it. He went back to reading, his eyelids beginning to droop before the redhead cleared his throat.

"This is all about trust, right? Which means no secrets between us?"

"Certain secrets would have to be kept, but yes."

"Well, I've got a dead-ringer for you. See, Miss Jean left behind a husband, and daughter and a son."

"Uh-huh…" he didn't like where this was going. What secret could he possibly be keeping that somehow involved his family?

"And the son, I kinda beat up in high school."

"That's it?"

"No," he said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "See, I didn't realize he was Miss Jean's kid, and I wanted to apologize to him, for making his life a living hell. But I got arrested and never got my chance. I wasn't expecting much, but maybe forgiveness. That's not much to ask, is it?"

"Course not," the hero nodded. "And somehow, I think he's already forgiven you."

"But that's not all!" he said quickly.

"Oh?" he was very interested now. Hotstreak ran his hand through his hair, which Static would later find out to be a nervous habit of his.

"Yeah, see, while I was in the clink, I had a lot of time to do some thinking…and I kinda, well…aw hell, I don't know how to put this…"

"Just say it—I won't judge."

"You sure?"

For moment, Static doubted himself. C'mon, how bad could it be? "Go on."

"I liked him."

"As in…tolerated him?"

"No," Hotstreak locked eyes with the hero. "I liked him. You know, really liked."

Static felt like he had been sucker punched. "You're…gay?"

* * *

_Virgil's room, 6:23 am._

"Shit, shit, _shit_! _Double shit_!" Richie said later. He was all but banging his head against the wall. "We should have known! We. Should. Have. _Known_! Hell, he was in prison for eight years, you'd figure…"

"Rich, it wasn't like he was somebody's bitch, remember?"

"Still—he's gay, and he's living with us!"

Virgil looked up at the ceiling. "Somehow, I know there's someone out there that's rolling on the floor right now."

"Where is he?"

"Hotstreak? He's sleeping; I made him a drink and slipped a little Nyquil in there so we could talk."

"Smooth—but yeah," Richie sat on the edge of his bed. He stared into space and said dismally, "He's gay…and he has a crush on you. You! My own boy—hey!" he all but shouted as Virgil clamped his hand over the other man's mouth.

"Not so loud!" he hissed. "What if he hears you?"

"You gave in Nyquil in a glass of vodka—I think he's out like a light."

"Yeah, but we don't know how well he can hold his alcohol. Listen, Rich," he pulled the other man into his arms affectionately, in way that crossed the boundaries of platonic friendship. "I don't like this either. But we can put up with it for now. With his help, we might catch the killer in a few days, and then he's gone. It won't be so bad, you'll see."

Richie leaned his head against his friend's chest. It wasn't a well-known fact, except by they're closest friends and allies in the League. Virgil and Richie weren't just friends, and they weren't just partners.

They were lovers.

They had been together since both were seventeen, and had been inseparable ever since. Nothing could have torn them apart, not even college. Virgil remembered the day that their parents found out. To say that Mr. Foley was less than pleased was an understatement, but at least Mr. Hawkins had helped ease the other man's temper. Years had passed, and things had cooled down to the point that Foley tolerated the partnership. He even allowed them to spend Christmas together, even if the dinner was silent as the grave. Oh well—had to start somewhere.

Mr. Hawkins wasn't angry, upset, or even disappointed. He was shocked—then again, he had walked into the room, only to find his son entangled with Richie, kissing the blond boy passionately and running his hands all over his body. Sharon only laughed when she found out, proclaiming that she knew it all along. Poor Mr. Hawkins had to chill for awhile before he could look his son in the eye. Once he did, however, he just started laughing.

"_What's so funny?" Virgil had asked. His father just laughed. Gaining composure for a moment, he said,_

"_I wish I could have seen my face!"_

"_Yeah, it was pretty priceless…"he was forced to agree with a small smile._

"_Not as priceless as yours—I don't think I've ever seen you so embarrassed."_

"_Um, yeah…can we forget that little encounter never happened…?"_

Upon joining the Justice League, everyone knew about it, but decided to keep it under wraps, and treated it much like with secret identities. There was nothing they had to worry about there—the League proved to be a surrogate family for both young heroes.

Originally, Virgil and Richie shared the same room; the one Virgil was sleeping in right now. They had agreed that since Hotstreak was coming to stay, they would have to sleep in separate rooms to keep up the façade. But with this new revelation, keeping the redhead in the dark would be harder than they thought.

"He's going to figure it out," Richie said, his arms encircling his lover. Virgil held him close and gave him a bear hug.

"If he does, we have something to use against him."

"Blackmail? C'mon, V…"

He tried to look innocent. "We'll make a 'you scratch my back I'll scratch yours' thing. Like what he was talking about earlier…it's all about knowing when to keep your mouth shut."

"Speaking of which," Richie caught Virgil's lips, "how much longer do we have to wait?"

Virgil was reminded of how long it had been for them—at least three or four days. Too long. "I don't know. As soon as he's gone I guess."

"He kinda worries me."

"How's that?"

"V, have you seen the way he looks at us? The way he looks at _you_? He said tonight that he liked Virgil Hawkins, what if he's falling for Static Shock, too?"

"He won't," he answered, rubbing the other man's back. "I'll give him a reason to not like me."

"I think he has plenty already."

Virgil grinned mischievously. "Then I'll give him one more reason to hate me."

* * *

"Why are you doing this to me?" Hotstreak asked with an agonized sigh. "I just wanna relax, man!" 

"Too bad, keep going," Static stood over him, looking down upon him like a king to a lowly slave—and poor Hotstreak was the slave.

"You know I haven't done this in a while…" the redhead argued.

"Again, tough—now let's see it."

Hotstreak grunted and pushed. Static heckled him.

"You call that a push up? That's a girl push-up—they don't count!"

"_Who says girl push-ups don't count_?" he grunted, holding himself up with shaky arms. The two of them were in one of the gymnasiums of the Watchtower, and Hotstreak was getting his daily dosage of exercise. That didn't necessarily mean he was happy with it, though.

Static pointed at him. The hero had taken off his coat, but kept the gloves and mask for obvious reasons. "See? You're out of shape…"

"Why are you my Drill Sergeant all of a sudden?"

"Less talking, more working. Let's _move_, soldier!"

Hotstreak muttered something incoherent under his breath as he continued doing his push-ups the "right way". Static looked on, uninterested. A woman's voice sounded in his ear.

"Keeping him busy?"

"Gotta do something with him—otherwise he'd just sit around the apartment all day. How's Batman?"

Wonder Woman shook her head wearily. "The same as ever, only he's much moodier these days, what with the lack of information about the Dakota Destroyer."

"You mean you can actually tell between his moods?" he asked incredulously. She grinned and fought back a laugh.

"It's an acquired skill."

"Tell me about it—I'm not sure Marvin could figure him out," he said, referencing J'onn. Wonder Woman gave him a reproving look.

"Static, please go easy on Batman—he's been under a lot of stress lately."

"He _does_ know that he doesn't need to help me and Gear on this case, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "I keep telling him…"

"…but he's as stubborn as they get…" he finished the overused statement. He pointed at the redhead, now on his fiftieth push-up. "Though I think Red here might give him a run for his money."

"I can hear you, you know," Hotstreak said, gritting his teeth. "So don't act like I'm not here."

"You're very strong," Wonder Woman said, changing the subject quickly. "For a mortal man, at least."

"Gee, thanks…" he said sarcastically. Static warned, "I wouldn't piss her off, man. Remember, she's an Amazon…"

"Yeah," he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. "But to be honest, ma'am, you really don't scare me."

"Oh?" her tone became harsh as winter winds, biting like a viper. The redhead nodded and paused to catch his breath. "Yeah—it's Batman that scares the bejeezus outta me. How Joker does it I'll never know."

"Could it be that Joker's insane?" Static offered.

"Could be that."

Static was suddenly aware of Wonder Woman's blue eyes studying him. He looked back at her, the question in his eyes. With her eyes, she wordlessly motioned for him to stand a few yards away, while she admonished Hotstreak.

"You call yourself a man? You are nothing—prove your strength to me—run the marathon."

"Marathon?"

She nodded. "The obstacle course."

Static's jaw dropped. Was she _serious_? No way, she…_holy crap_, she _was_ serious. The Amazon pointed the meta-human in the right direction, then turned to give Static a wink. When he caught up with her, he finally asked, "What are you doing?"

"Putting him through his paces; a man like that needs to know who the boss is."

"I think he has a pretty good idea already."

She pulled him close so she could whisper, "Why are you defending him?"

He looked at her strangely. "What are you talking about?"

"You're protecting him—every time he's out of his room, you're with him."

"Yeah, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. He may know what the rules are, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he'll follow them."

"You always stand so close to him…"

"Meaning?"

"Do you…admire him?"

"As in…do I like him…in that way?"

The look she sent him was enough. He shrugged. He hasn't really thought about it…but she had a point. He had gotten into the habit of standing close to the meta-human, too close in some cases. So close it would have made Gear's blood boil.

_But that doesn't mean anything—I do NOT like Hotstreak_. He was alerted by a yelp and saw to his amazement, Hotstreak running through the 'obstacle course'. Though among the new recruits, it was called the 'Death Chamber', for obvious reasons. It was a joint project between Gear and the Green Lantern, who felt that they needed to stay in shape somehow, and felt the need for better training programs.

In light of this, Gear designed a system with which to test the very limits of strength: he included flying blades of death, flame throwers, potentially deadly robots, lasers, and everything else under the sun. In all honesty, the Death Chamber had everything imaginable but the kitchen sink.

And for a beginner, Hotstreak was doing very well. It was downright _impressive_ even. Wonder Woman seemed to regard him in a new light. "For a man who only just got out of jail, he is in remarkable shape. Look at the way he dodges the lasers and robots."

"And all this without his powers—I never would have thought. He really is good…"

"See? That is what I mean."

"Diana," Static said, "I do not like him like that. Remember, I have Richie—I love him and he loves me, and that's all I care about."

"I'm not disagreeing with you," she said, sending him a warning glance. "But if I were you, I'd be careful around him, Virgil."

He smiled his usual grin, "Don't worry—I've got it under control. And if I don't I'll let Richie take over. Is that cool?"

"That sounds fine to me. You know..." she turned her attention back to Hotstreak, who was currently running away from one of the robots, affectionately called 'Brutus'. The redhead was screaming, "Somebody get me _outta here_! Or at least take off the _goddamn bracelets_!"

She giggled. "I think we should let him out."

"Aw…but it's so much fun to see him run around like that," he joked.

"Virgil, as much as I find this humorous, Hotstreak is of no use to us if he's dead."

"Fine," he sighed in defeat. "I'll get him out."

"Virgil?"

"Yes Diana?"

"I just had a thought."

"About what?"

"Hmm…just a musing—maybe…maybe Hotstreak would make a good member of the Justice League. That is, if he didn't have all those moral flaws."

He parted with a laugh. "Hey, you'll beat the tar outta him someday, and that'll fix any moral flaws right there. Oh, and Wonder Woman?"

"Yes, Static?"

"Thanks."

* * *

"I'm telling you, that lady is downright sadistic!" 

Static snorted, trying to hide his laughter. He was bandaging up the redhead's left arm, and poor Hotstreak was incensed. "It's a wonder she's even a hero!"

"Maybe that's why they call her 'Wonder Woman'," Static ventured.

"And you're no help either!"

"You're bleeding."

"No shit Sherlock."

"No, your chest—there's blood," Static pointed. Hotstreak looked down at his chest and saw that, indeed, he had a cut and it was bleeding. "Huh, I don't remember that one."

"We'd better get that fixed up anyway. Take off your shirt, I'll get it."

"But you're not a doctor…"

"I'm trained to be a field doctor, just in case something happens, then I'd know what to do. All members go through some form of First Aid training before entering the field."

"How long did it take you?"

"A couple years—but most of this stuff is extensive—setting broken bones, curing poisoning, what to do with a snake bite, and stuff like that. Now, take off your shirt…"

"Fine," he grumbled, slowly peeling the tight article of clothing away from his body. He winced when he tugged at bits that had been stuck to his skin with dried blood. That cut hurt like hell…

Static took out a packet of rubbing alcohol swabs, some bandages, and antibacterial salve. He took one of the swabs out of its packet and unfolded it. "this'll sting a little—but it won't last long."

Hotstreak only nodded, laid back on the couch, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his bare chest. As Static slowly dabbed the alcohol-drenched wipe across the raw flesh, the redhead hissed with pain. The hero looked at him apologetically and continued.

The patient kept focusing on the hero's face, set with concentration. He had seen that look many times before—and it never failed to make his heart palpitate. That face, the smile, and sometimes, if he was lucky, he would hear him laugh. Though he tried, Hotstreak couldn't help but admire him. He was no Virgil Hawkins, though...Hr briefly wondered how much he had changed. Was Hawkins the same as he always had been?

Static was at his wit's end. He never thought that he'd be feeling this way about one of his greatest enemies. Though here he was, treating a wound no less, getting full view of the muscled chest and firm stomach, taunt muscles relaxed. Why was he affected? He had Richie and needed nothing else.

_It's temptation, Static_, his mind told him. _This flame-haired fallen angel is tempting you._

_No he isn't,_ he admonished.

_Think about it—Richie's never looked this good…_

'_Course he has_, Static thought with a wicked grin. _In fact, I can think of a few times when he looked even better…_

_But, don't you ever wonder about what you're missing…?_ his brain told him.

Static finally banished these thoughts from his mind. _I'm not missing a damn thing—I'm happy with what I have._

But he still wouldn't deny just how…incredible Hotstreak looked, laid out like that, shirtless, eyes closed. The hero fought back on a blush and started applying the antibacterial salve. The salve, then the bandages, then its over. _But_, he reasoned, _looking is fine, its not like you're cheating…right?_

Hotstreak, meanwhile, was struggling to keep his breathing under control. God, whatever Static was doing, he wished it would never stop. He was gentle, as no one had been gentle with him before. Hotstreak had tried to hide the fact of his orientation while in prison, and a couple guys found out, and in order to pacify them… He didn't want to think about it. For the time being, he was simply enjoying these new sensations. Awareness dawned. _Shit—I _like_ him! I'm not falling for him…am I? No, its too soon…its infatuation. Besides, even if he was…that way_, he thought dismally, a frown creasing the handsome face, _Even if he _was_ gay, he'd never go for a guy like me._

_Easy, Static_, he told himself, _almost done…_ He applied the last bandage and declared a little too quickly, "Done!"

"Hey thanks—you're not too bad a guy."

"Um…thanks?"

He gasped when the redhead shot up from lying down and pecked him on the lips. Shock and disorientation made it nearly impossible for that action to register in the hero's mind until Hotstreak had extracted himself and went into his own room. After the door had closed, Static unconsciously raised his finger to touch his lips, still able to feel the pressure of those lips upon his own.

_Richie's not going to like this…

* * *

_

_Dakota, 11:34 pm._

Somewhere in Dakota, late at night, in the dingiest parts of the city, _he_ lurked. Hugging the shadows, skulking along the alleys, prowling the streets like a panther on the hunt. He smiled to himself, a queer, cruel and sadistic smile. He sniffed the air like an animal, and caught her scent on the air. Her perfume was so sweet, and what's this? Walking home at night, all alone, in one of the toughest neighborhoods? Now, that just wouldn't do…

He extracted himself from the shadows and made his presence known. The woman he was trailing saw him, was startled, but relaxed when he voiced his intentions.

"Excuse me, miss," he said kindly enough, "But I noticed you were walking all alone—its pretty dangerous around here. Would you mind if I walked you home?"

The woman, a beautiful Asian, arms laden with groceries, smiled sweetly and said, "That's kind of you, but I can handle myself."

"Are you sure? What if something happens, wouldn't your family or boyfriend worry?"

"My family doesn't live here, and I don't have a boyfriend," she said, turning her back on him and walking away, adjusting the grocery bags in her arms. He grinned. Turning her back on him was the last mistake she'd ever make…

"So you're family doesn't live around here? Then that means no one will be missing you for a while…"

She turned around to question him, then opened her mouth to scream. The sound never came…

He smiled as he stood over her body, her blood spilling into the gutter, groceries scattered all over. He took the knife out of his pocket and moved forward. This time, he'd leave a little warning for all of them: Never mess with the Destroyer.

* * *

_The Watchtower, Static's Room, 3:22 am._

Static was suddenly aware that there was someone in his room. It wasn't Gear, because he would have climbed into bed with him. It wasn't Hotstreak, because he knew that even after all these years the redhead was not adept at picking locks. The only other alternative Static could think of was…

"Bruce, it's 3:30 in the morning. What are you doing?" he asked groggily. Batman crept out of the shadows in the room and walked over to the bed and demanded, "Get up!"

"Why?"

"The Destroyer has struck again."

He shot up. "What! When…where?"

"About an hour ago—police only just found the body." The Dark Knight handed him the crime scene photos. Static took one look at them and shook his head.

"This can't be the Destroyer—its not his usual style…whoa! What the hell…?"

"He left a message for us to follow," Batman said, concern and irritation etched into his face. Concern for Dakota's citizens, and irritation for not being able to predict this murder. "Virgil," he said, "Get Richie and Hotstreak and get down there now. We can't waste time."

He didn't need to be told a second time. The hero shot up out of bed and got into his costume. As he put his mask on, he turned back to look at Batman. "I _have_ told you that you don't need to help us, right?"

"I want to—besides, I have a feeling you'll need all the help you can get." The Batman stared down at one of the pictures and narrowed his eyes dangerously. In the photo, there lay the body of the murdered woman, her corpse mutilated beyond recognition, and on the brick wall above her a message was scrawled in blood:

"_Yet each man kills the thing he loves,  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword."

* * *

_

_To be continued…_

A/N: woo! We have a poetic killer on the loose! Remember to read and review!


	4. Chapter 4: Cold

Chapter 4: Cold

Disclaimer: God, I wish I owned them! The three most perfect boys in the whole world, all mine! . But, its not gonna happen…in short, none of this belongs to me but the plot.

Warnings: Graphic crime scene schtuff (If you can watch CSI without flinching, you should be fine) and SLASH! Woohoo! ;)

Author's notes: BTW, I don't know if you all noticed, but all my chapter titles (Except the first chapter) are based off of songs. My habit is listening to music as I write, cause apparently that helps with the creative process. For instance, Chapter 2 was named "Confessions", only because I was listening to Usher at the time (Yes, I know the lyrics of the song have nothing to do with the chapter content, but the title worked, so it stuck). This chapter was named after the Crossfade song "Cold" (Totally kick-ass btw).

And Chapter 3 was called "Unaffected" after the Hoobastank song of the same name. Heck, the lyrics even speak for the themselves (as far as a V/F relationship goes): "_Before they even saw my face/ they knew that I was not the same/ and decided I was not the one/ for you/ For you…"_

Scary, huh? Enjoy!

* * *

_Dakota, 7: 26 am _

The two heroes and the meta-human arrived at the scene and stared dumbstruck at the area around them. Along the dingy street wet from morning dew were dozens of emergency vehicles, lights flashing wildly in the pre-dawn light. Neighbors in the area, dressed in bed clothes and robes and slippers, watched from their front doors, porches and windows, looking upon the gruesome scene worriedly. An elderly woman was being held up by a younger member of her family, the poor woman sick with worry. The family member, whom Static was led to believe to be her son, soothed his mother's whimpering and sent the hero a hopeful look as if to say 'Find out who did this soon'.

_Don't worry_, Static thought. _This'll be over very soon…I hope_. He hoped for this more than he consciously knew. On the one hand, he wanted the killer off the street. And on the other hand, the farther he was away from Hotstreak, the better. He couldn't wait to get back to the life he knew and loved above all else—especially the man he loved above all else.

The hero's dark eyes rested on his partner, Gear. He couldn't help but count his blessings every time he looked upon his lover, boyfriend, and soul mate. Richie was…beautiful. There was no other way for Virgil to describe him. And the other man presented such a figure as Gear—determined, intelligent, even wise beyond his years. Gear always possessed a certain calm in every situation. Static never would have guessed that deep down, his partner was riddled with fear: fear of losing the one thing that kept him going.

Gear was aware of Static's watching him. And he was also aware of a certain redhead riding on the disk with his boyfriend. Something about the way Hotstreak looked at _both_ of them was very unnerving. And for a split second, he could have sworn that the redhead was watching him like a tiger watches the gazelle before pouncing. Gear had only seen that type of look once before…well, Richie had, at any rate…and that was whenever he was alone with Static…

The way his eyes sparkled and shone, hooded over with desire, the slightly rough hands rubbing up and down his body, the kisses on his neck, the moans elicited from him as he stroked him in all the right spots, as his hand moved down his body…slowly, oh so slowly, below the waist…

A shout from Static brought him back to his senses. He realized he had almost flown into a light pole while lost in his fantasies. _Damn him for being so hot_, he inwardly complained…not that he was actually complaining.

The trio landed outside a circle of police tape. An officer standing by lifted the yellow tape so they could cross over into what the two heroes often called 'No Man's Land': the dark and nearly forbidden space, marked with the red stain of murder. Both of them hated jobs like these, but this had to be done.

They approached the murder spot, the body covered in a white sheet. A CSI photographer was clicking away, the flash of the bulb illuminating the horrid message on the wall. It was almost surreal, and reminded Static of old horror movies that he was so fond of—the inside of a dark, abandoned haunted house, surrounded by dying weeping willows and trees covered with Spanish moss, blocking the French windows of the Victorian mansion. A lone woman, creeping into the dark room, her face illuminated as lightning struck outside, screaming in terror then falling silent; the next bolt of lightning, leaving a gruesome scene of her murdered form lying on the dusty floor, spilling her crimson fears…

"Static!" Gear called him over. The hero shook himself out of it and walked over to examine the message. Hotstreak was standing right in front of it, wearing jeans, a new red shirt (naturally) and a black windbreaker. His brows were furrowed, and he had a faraway look in his green eyes that suggested he might have seen something like this before.

"Recognize anything?" Static asked, indicating the body. Hotstreak only shook his head, "The body isn't of any concern—she doesn't matter. The message is the only thing that matters here."

"How can you say that!" Gear exploded. "Is that how you feel about human life?"

"No," the redhead admonished. "That's how the killer sees it—you needed an insider into the mind of a sick bastard, and I've known my fair share. So hear me out…"

He turned back to the poem on the brick wall, and raised his hand to point out words as he silently read them, lips moving, forming the words. Looking a bit confused, he stared out into space. He cleared his throat,

"I've definitely seen that poem before—but I can't remember where. I recognize the style: it's Romanticism, from around the early to late 19th century. Writers like Poe, Emerson, Stoker, Stevenson and…_SHIT_!" He cursed. "Shit!"

"What? What is it?" Static asked worriedly. Hotstreak pointed at the wall. "_Wilde_! Oscar Wilde! That poem was written by Oscar Wilde! Quick, who were the other victims?"

Gear instructed Backpack mentally, and the little robot gave him the particulars. He read them out as the other two listened closely, Hotstreak leaning against a lamppost, head bowed in thought, and Static standing by, arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay, the victims, in chronological order: Edward Jones, 31, a stockbroker; Daniel McKenzie, 35, a teller at a bank; Michelle McDonald, 24, a waitress; Dante Jones, 27, a mechanic; and now we have Miranda Carmichael, a businesswoman. She was 29."

"Do they have anything in common? Favorite hangout, a birthday, sun sign, anything?" Hotstreak wondered.

"Nope, not a thing."

"Not even a doctor or mutual friend?"

"I'm telling you," Gear was starting to get a little annoyed. "There's nothing that connects them."

Hotstreak let out a ragged breath and leaned his head back. "What do they usually say: sometimes the hardest murders to solve…"

"Are the ones with no visible motive," Static finished. "What's your point?"

"What if this was a hit man?"

Gear shook his head. "Hit men aren't this messy—ever. We're dealing with a sick mind."

"'_Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.'" _Hotstreak read aloud. "I'm pretty sure that was from '_The Ballad of Reading Gaol_'."

Static shrugged. "Whatever you say—I won't contest that."

"Wonder why he used that particular poem? If he was talking about death, why not use something by Edgar Allen Poe," Gear pondered. "Or Emily Dickenson or something along those lines?"

"There's a hidden meaning," Hotstreak said. "There has to be."

The police chief hailed them, "Then maybe you can find the hidden meaning with this…" he pointed at the body under the white cloth. The trio walked over, all of them a little wary of what they might find. As the police chief tore away the white cloth they gave a collective gasp.

There was a gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

All three recoiled and turned an unhealthy shade of green. Static covered his mouth with his gloved hand and coughed, trying to expel the stench of death from his mouth and nostrils.

"Jesus Christ," Gear swore. "We're dealing with a modern-day Jack the Ripper…"

Hotstreak's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His countenance screamed shock, then wonder and fascination, and then finally recognition. He could only breathe out, his voice barely above a whisper, "That's it…"

* * *

_The Watchtower, 10:24 am._

"And he still hasn't said what crossed his mind?" Superman asked later. Static shook his head.

"Not a thing. He simply said '_That's it'_, demanded that we get back here, asked to borrow a computer, and Gear, for a little while, then holed himself up in the apartment. That was about an hour ago."

Batman was watching the Dakota Morning News on the monitors of the main control room, standing still as a statue. His face was even more unreadable than usual, and for the time being, he felt all absence of thought. He asked, "How is it that an ex-convict can figure something out, and I'm still left in the dark?"

Superman planted his hand reassuringly on his friend's shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up over it—you've had your hands full the past couple days—it shouldn't surprise me that you missed something. Aren't you tired?"

"A little," he was forced to admit.

"Then get some sleep."

"And don't you use the 'Crime never rests' thing on us, either," Static reprimanded, "We all know that's a load of bull."

"Something doesn't add up," the Dark Knight said. "You said our only current suspect is Ivan Evans?"

"Ebon," Static nodded. "But there have been rumors that he either escaped from prison or was killed in a fight. I've looked into it, but neither is conclusive."

"That's where you're wrong." Batman handed him a newspaper clipping. It was from the Obituaries. _Aw, man, I _know_ I'm not gonna like this…_ he thought.

In the clipping, there was the face of the 'man behind the shadow': Ivan "Ebon" Evans' mug shot, it stated his age, height, weight, and ID number. And it also listed '_Died while trapped in his cell during a prison fire. Guards struggled to open the padlock but were too late to save the one prisoner left inside…_'

"My God…"

"A slow and terrible death. They laid him to rest today. I went down there myself for the viewing and the burial. It was closed-casket, without a doubt. There's no mistaking it—Ebon is dead."

"And there goes your prime suspect," Superman shook his head wearily. "It's a shame—he was slated to get out within two week's time."

This was a revelation to Static. "He was?"

"For good behavior," Batman said, taking back the newspaper clipping. "It's a bit ironic, I'd think. He waited to get out of jail for so long, then he finally got just what he wanted."

"One hell of a way out too," Static reflected.

* * *

_Hotstreak's room, 10:30 am._

"This is one hell of an idea of yours," Gear said. "You sure this will work?"

"I've got a hunch," Hotstreak said, bustling about for blank paper and a pencil. Upon finding the desired materials, he roughly sketched the crime scene and the way the body was positioned. "Okay, over here we have the wall, with the message written in blood and the victim placed right underneath it. The way she was lying…" he made motions with his pencil point, "It sort of looked like a famous painting. Care to guess?"

"Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus'. A renaissance painter, from Florence, Italy. So?"

"My theory…" he made a few marks on the paper. "Is that our killer has something to do with art, or a museum or something. If you noticed the way he wrote the words…"

"Calligraphy—Edwardian script?" the hero guessed.

"Edwardian script," he assented. "A style common to the Victorian era."

"So you're saying that this guy is a Jack the Ripper enthusiast?" Gear asked incredulously.

"Maybe. But don't you think it's odd," he paused and looked right into his eyes. "That all these people were murdered in similar ways? Except they were missing only one internal organ: their hearts."

"I find it odd that I'm talking to an _educated_ Hotstreak…"

He smirked triumphantly. "What? Not used to talking with someone with the same intellectual standing as you?"

"First of all, you're not my intellectual equal—you just know more about English, History and complete random crap than I do. And second, I…"

"Want me to stay away from Static, right?"

That question stopped him in his tracks. He tried to hide it, but the redhead saw right through it.

"You love him don't you? Wow, I guess I should have seen this coming," he chuckled arrogantly. "I knew it…I _knew_ it! Gear is gay—how fitting."

"Yeah, so what are you going to do?" _Tell the league?_ He thought. _Too late, they already know. Tell the media? Fine, not like it'll be that big a deal…_

"This." Hotstreak grabbed him and kissed him right on the neck. Gear stiffened, rigid as steel, as he felt the other meta-human's arms wrap around his waist. _What the _HELL

_Where's Backpack?_ He wondered briefly, but that was before Hotstreak's tongue poked out and started licking up his neck. Gear all the while was thinking, _Virgil's going to kill me! He's going to…God, I…I…oh my God, where did he learn how to do _that

Hotstreak broke away to catch his breath, then trailed kisses down Gear's throat, stopping at the collarbone, then trailing his tongue back up the ivory skin. Gear's eyes fluttered closed and he bit back a moan. The last thing he wanted to do was let Hotstreak know just how much he was enjoying this.

_Please don't go any further, because if you do…_ As soon as Hotstreak found the one spot on his body that made him weak with desire, all thought temporarily ceased. The redhead had found that spot: right under the ear.

Gear clutched at the other man, losing the battle to control his rapid breathing, his fingers digging into his shoulders. And he was also losing control over another baser instinct…

He gasped when Hotstreak nibbled on his earlobe, then licked his way back down his neck, only to prepare to leave one tell-tale bite mark.

Gear suddenly came to his senses and roughly pushed the other man away. Hotstreak fell back with a yelp and landed on his back on the floor with a thud, the wind thoroughly knocked out of him. Gear struggled to catch his breath. When he finally caught it, and had calmed down considerably, he hissed, "Don't you EVER do that again, got it?"

Hotstreak gulped down a breath of air and nodded, "Got it."

* * *

_Main Circuit Board, Room C, Watchtower, 3:15 pm._

"Gear! How'd it go?" Static asked later. He had found Gear in the same room as the huge motherboard for all computers on the Watchtower. The huge room resembled a library with all its tall standing circuit boards, like shelves of books, only containing more information than any library on earth. Wires ran all along these like vines upon an old wall, stretching for meters. There were literally miles of wires in this one wing of the room. The room was lit with a soft blue light, and Gear was currently fixing up a couple broken wires and readjusting some fixtures.

He didn't even look up as his partner walked in. "He misbehaved, so I locked him in his room," he said, wincing when he realized a split second later that he sounded a lot like the mother of a troubled child.

Static thought that was adorable—he thought everything about his lover was adorable. Even after ten years together, Richie could still play the naïve virgin, even though he had 'done it' maybe thousands of times in the past decade. _Hollywood lost one hell of an actor_, he thought. Even after all these years, Richie could still surprise him.

And what surprised him now was the thing he noticed on his lover's neck. Was that…? It couldn't have been…he hadn't given him one in weeks. "Hey, Gear, what's that thing on your neck?" he hoped his tone didn't sound as accusatory as he thought it did.

The other hero's hand reached up to touch the side of his neck then froze. Static was able to see the expression on his face: it clearly read 'oh shit'. Then there was something else behind the terrified eyes staring straight into the jungle of wires…

"Rich, what happened?"

"Nothing," he answered a little too quickly. Virgil saw right through it. "It was Hotstreak, wasn't it?"

"Look, bro, I'm kinda busy right know. Can we talk about this la…"

"No, we're talking about this now!" Virgil said firmly. "What did he do?"

"Why are you worried about it?" Richie shot back. "You know how I feel about him."

"Oh yeah—you feel well enough about him to let him give you that."

"He came on to _me_!"

"Yeah, well he came on to me too!" he confessed through his rage.

They froze, slack-jawed, then simultaneously exclaimed. "WHAT?"

"When did…?"

"Last night."

"And did he…?"

"Kiss you…?"

"So that means…"

They paused, looked at each other and Gear started to chuckle. Virgil looked a little hurt, then he explained, "Look, Rich, I was going to tell you—really. I was just afraid that you'd get angry…"

"Of course I'm angry! I'm angry at _him_! If I had known what he did, I would have fed his sorry ass to Brutus."

"The robot in the Death Chamber?"

"The same."

"So you got the hickey…"

"From him," he looked riddled with guilt. Virgil relaxed. "So he came on to you? What were you doing?"

Richie shrugged. "Just being myself."

"Your _very sexy_ self…" he stepped forward, embracing his boyfriend. The paler man pushed against him.

"Virg! Not here! What if someone walks in?"

"Who besides _you_ would know what they're doing when they walk in here?" he took off his own mask and proceeded to move the visor away from his lover's handsome face. He observed how the blue light of the panels in the room reflected off the pale skin, giving it a radiant glow. It reflected off the blonde's blue eyes, the brightness of those intelligent orbs evermore emphasized.

"God, you're beautiful," Virgil whispered.

"So are you."

They leaned in closer, Richie wrapping his arms around Virgil's strong shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed as he felt Virgil's warm breath on his face. "V? Do you forgive me?"

"Like I can stay mad at you…" he answered, moving in swiftly for the kiss. Their lips met, and it was so much like the others: each one more mind-blowing than the one before. Their kisses and caresses weren't those of clumsy high school boys: every kiss reflected their passion, every touch sent shock waves through their bodies.

Virgil's hands cupped Richie's face, tilting his head so he could get in closer. Richie opened his lips to him, his fingers digging into his shoulders. The blond moaned into the kiss, and he felt his lover's lips twist into a smile. They parted for a moment, foreheads touching. Richie sighed and leaned his head on his boyfriend's shoulder.

"We need to stop."

Virgil looked hurt. "Why?"

"Because if we continue, _I_ won't be able to stop."

Virgil chuckled. "Then how do we remedy our situation?"

"Virgil…" Richie said in warning. He knew what was coming.

"C'mon, bro," Virgil pressed. "We can find a small, dark space, unappealing to anyone, a place where no one will find us…"

"The Flash's room—has anyone told him that place can't possibly be fit for human habitation?"

Virgil's face contorted in a grimace. "Let's try somewhere clean." He emphasized the last word ardently.

"Broom closet?" Richie suggested.

"Too dusty."

"I have an idea…" the blonde's lips turned upward into a sly, suggestive smile. An odd glint shone in his eyes that his lover failed to notice. Virgil's arms wrapped around his waist and he asked innocently, "Hmm…what's your idea? WHOA!"

Before it had even registered, Virgil was on his back on the floor of the control room, pinned down by the effervescent blond. Richie was grinning like a madman, and Virgil laughed, accusing, "You had this all planned out from the beginning, didn't you?"

"You know me," Richie said deviously, his hands running up inside Virgil's shirt. "I'm not bad…I just know what I want."

"Nah, man—you're bad."

"How bad?" he asked seductively, linking his blue eyes with Virgil's dark obsidian spheres. The smile momentarily left the darker man's face; he reached for Richie's hand, brought it to his lips and kissed the inside of his wrist, breathing in his scent. He guided the hand down his body, over his chest, firm stomach, and right below the belt…

"You this bad?" he asked. Richie's eyes had hooded over with desire. Batting his lover's hands away, he answered, "You bet."

_Dakota, A downtown bar, 11:51 pm._

He entered the bar scene and sat on a stool at the bar, calling the bartender over. The bartender, a tall black man, who seemed vaguely familiar to him, was cleaning a glass with a rag, and arched an eyebrow at the newcomer.

"What'll it be?"

"What do you have on tap?"

The bartender shrugged, putting the cleaned glass back on a shelf. "What _don't_ we have?"

"I'll have a Heineken, then."

Once presented with his drink, he thanked the man, who went back to his chores silently, shifting amongst the shadows as if he were a part of them. The newcomer was sure he had seen this man before, but shook his head and focused on drinking his beer. It was odd, he reasoned, how alcohol didn't seem to affect him as it did most other "normal" people. Looking around the bar, he spotted him.

He was a young man in a business suit, now disheveled, his hair sticking up in odd places, obviously distraught. The young man ran a shaky hand through his brown hair, his brown eyes starring straight into the bar. The glass of brandy in front of him sat untouched. He looked as if he were about to crack.

"Little woman giving you a big problem?" the man asked. The younger man looked up sharply, his expressive brown eyes betraying every emotion: hurt, guilt, betrayal…and heartbreak.

"Ah, I see," he added. "Let me guess: she's been seeing someone else, hasn't she?"

"H-how did you know?"

"Well, why else would a young married man be in a bar on a Saturday night instead of at home making sweet love to his wife?"

"How did you know I was married?"

"The ring on your finger was an obvious indication," the man pointed. "Infidelity is harsh, let me tell you. What was her name?"

"Miranda."

"I see—say, wasn't her body discovered just earlier today?"

"Yes," the young man gripped his glass so hard it threatened to break. His companion shook his head.

"Pity, a real shame. But I guess you could say she had it coming…"

The younger man looked at him sharply, rage burning in his eyes. "How dare you say that!"

"Listen, kid," the man said, his eye suddenly catching that of the bartender. The tall dark man regarded him suspiciously, but nevertheless threw the towel over his shoulder then retreated to the back room, perhaps for more supplies. _Good, but that doesn't give me much time._

"Kid, you're better off without a woman like her. She didn't treat you right—I mean, I know very little about you, but I can tell you that its better to have loved and lost…":

"But Miranda was everything to me! How could she cheat on me with my best friend?"

"Ah, I see…so she lied when she said she had no boyfriend…or husband for that matter…"

"Wait, wait," Mr. Carmichael paused. "Did you know her?"

"In a sense…" the older man pulled out something from his coat pocket, wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to the younger man and said, "I believe to belonged to Miranda. Go on, she'd want you to have it."

Cautious, the younger man slowly opened the small package, unsure of what his late wife would have left him. When he saw the contents, he screamed bloody murder and fell off his stool, eyes wide with horror. "Its..its…"

"Her heart?" the older man said, finishing off his beer and leaving an ample tip for the bartender. "Well, I figured she broke your heart—tore it out and kicked it around, so stands to reason…what goes around comes around. Have a good night." then he stabbed the younger man in the stomach, providing him with a slow and painful death. "Sorry, kid," the Dakota Destroyer said, "ButI can't have witnesses. _Ciao_." With that, he left the bar calmly, chuckling in his throat, leaving the horrified young man, who sobbed uncontrollably, his own blood flowing out onto the floor.

And in the back room, the bartender had overheard everything, and seen it all play out. Legs shaking, he moved to the back exit, not caring if he was still on the clock. He had to warn someone before it was too late.

* * *

A/N: again, the killer strikes! BTW, I loosely based the killer off Ted Bundy—hope nobody minds. Read and Review! 


	5. Chapter 5: Rapture

Chapter 5: Rapture

Author's notes: Wooo…okay, sorry for the delay. College has been draining me of good ideas, and my prose hasn't been too grand lately. Plot's doing well, so nothing to worry about.

Warnings: SLASH—you _have_ been warned—violence, angst, and more fun with the Destroyer.

Rating: I just might make it R for language and slashiness.

Disclaimer: though I don't own the boys, or the Justice League for that matter, the plot of this little monster is mine. So no stealing! It took me a lot of brainstorming to come up with this whole shebang.

* * *

_Hotstreak's room, 11:34 am_

Hotstreak couldn't quite remember how he ended up on the floor of his room when he was only in bed just seconds ago. To add insult to injury, he was being held to the ground by pulsing electricity. _Shit_, he thought, _he knows_.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Static asked coldly, his eyes flashing dangerously. Hotstreak struggled against the bonds, receiving only electric shocks. The more he struggled, the more pain he was in.

"C-c'mon man! Can't you take a joke?"

"What exactly do you want from us?" he asked angrily.

"Truth—you two are gay, aren't you?"

"Bi-sexual; we're bisexual. Happy?"

"A bit disappointed, but yeah."

"I think it goes without saying that you stay the hell away from both of us."

"Even though both of you had it coming."

"Come again?" Static's power diminished slightly, an eyebrow raised in question. Hotstreak tried pushing himself up off the floor, but was still held down with the right amount of static cling.

"Both of you…are too damn sexy for your own good…"

Static smirked, but said nothing. Then he frowned and let the redhead go. "Stay away—your schemes aren't going to work, okay?"

"You want me to be honest?"

"That'd be nice."

"I want you."

Static laughed. "Yeah? And I want you…to leave me and Gear alone."

Hotstreak gave him a half-smile, more like a smirk than anything else. "You'll warm up to me—you can't deny it."

"Sure I can. Just watch me," he said, turning his back and walking towards the door. Static gasped when he felt heat against his back and strong muscular arms wrap around his middle. He felt Hotstreak's head rest on his shoulder and whisper in his ear.

"Is it too much to ask that once—just once—I be treated like any man would want to be treated?"

Static gulped down a breath of air before answering, "You're not like most men."

"You're right," he said, one hand running down to Static's hip. The hero stiffened. "I'm not like most men, but neither are you, Static."

To this, the hero had nothing to say other than, "You were in prison…"

"And had experiences I'd rather not talk about, if it's all the same to you. Please," he begged, almost tenderly. Static could feel unnatural heat emanating from the other man's hands and fingers as they lightly traced over the muscles of his taunt stomach. He closed his dark eyes and bit back a moan, gnawing on his bottom lip. He took a deep steadying breath, and Hotstreak noticed.

"You like this, don't you?"

"If I gave you what you wanted," Static said with a calm he didn't even know he possessed, "Will you let me leave?"

He could feel the man's smile as his mouth kissed the junction between the neck and shoulder. Hotstreak's hands, hot as any passion, reached up and pushed the long jacket off of the hero's strong shoulders, kissing the bare skin. He nuzzled his head into his shoulder. "Give me what I want, and you can leave."

Instead of being relieved, Static knew he was in hot water. Gear would hear about this, and then he might as well throw himself out of frying pan and into the fire. Speaking of fire…what the hell was he doing!

Hotstreak still stood behind him, pressing his chest against his back, leaning his head against his shoulder, hands reaching around to the front and running up inside his shirt. When Static felt those hands on his chest he almost lost it. He's obviously done this before…but how many times? And with who? He didn't want to think about it—he settled on instinct being the culprit of the skilled ministrations currently bringing him to a high no drug could recreate.

And Hotstreak wasn't even rubbing and caressing below the waist.

_God damn but he's good…_ he snapped himself out of it. _Okay, Static, how are you getting out of this without really crossing the line?_ The thought hit him like lightning. Perfect.

Suddenly, without warning, he turned around and grabbed the other bang-baby forcibly, holding him firm by the shoulders, his gloved fingers digging into the redhead's shoulders. Static's hands came up to cup Hotstreak's face, then moved in for the kill.

Hotstreak's eyes were wide with shock at the force of Static's kiss. It electrified him, no pun intended. He felt lightheaded suddenly, and molded into the other man's arms, moaning as he felt Static's tongue on his lips. He opened his mouth and felt that hot and skilled tongue ravage the hot cavern.

The redhead's hands gripped at the hero's shoulders, fearing collapse if he let go. There were no other sensations he felt other than those lips, that tongue, those hands running down his sides, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him in closer. Hotstreak arched into Static's body and tilted his head as the hero trailed his tongue down his neck, stopping to suck on the crook of the neck.

Static pulled away and Hotstreak whimpered in protest. When he looked into Static's dark eyes, they were dancing with mirth and barely contained laughter. The hero's hand lightly slapped against Hotstreak'sblushing cheek, and he said playfully, "One good turn deserves another. Now we're even." With that, he strode out of the room and left Hotstreak still reeling from the assault on his mouth.

The redhead meta-human took a few steps backwards until his back hit the wall, and he slid down it, his legs suddenly deciding to give out from under him. He raised his fingers to lightly touch the still-tingling lips, wondering if what had happened had actually happened. That kiss, he decided, was the most mind-blowing thing he had ever experienced.

What the hell did Static and Gear _do_ together…? Did _Gear_ teach Static how to do that? And if so, Hotstreak needed to take a few lessons.

And so what if he didn't get _everything_ he wanted? The kiss was good enough…for now. As he stood he still felt lightheaded, and even wavered a moment, almost losing his balance and falling again. He leaned against the wall and shook his head to relieve it of the cobwebs and less-than-innocent fantasies. Even after a few steps, he still felt…terrible.

_It's the kiss_, he told himself. _It affected you like no other kiss has before…ARG, _stoppit_! With things the way they are, there's no way your little fantasies will ever come true. You have a better chance of being hit by lightning than…_ he made it as far as the doorway if his room before collapsing against it. One shaky hand reached up to wipe away the cold sweat that started perspiring on his forehead, longish strands of red hair sticking to the skin. _What is wrong with me?_

He felt dizzy, very tired, weak, and there was a faint queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Instinct told him, _this isn't because of Static. This is serious, Francis._

He grimaced. Even after all those years as F-stop or Hotstreak, his mind still called him Francis. He never referred to himself as Francis, unless it was a really serious situation.

And this was serious.

Biting his lip, he summoned enough strength to make it to the couch and collapsed on the cushions, taking off his red shirt in an effort to cool himself off. He was burning up, and not in a good way. Then a familiar pain hit him—it was the same pain he felt the night his powers had surfaced.

The nurse had run from the room as the doctor entered, and she was screaming, _'He's burning up!'_

He really was burning up now. He had never felt so bad since…

Hotstreak gulped and tried hard not to panic.

* * *

_Main Control Room, 12:01 pm_

"So did you handle the situation?" Gear asked as Static entered the computer room.

"You could say that," he answered with a sly grin. Gear looked satisfied enough. "So what did you do?"

"Gave him a taste of his own medicine."

"You WHAT?"

"Rich," he tried calming his lover; "Do you really think I give a damn about him? He's only here because of the Destroyer—once we catch this guy, Hotstreak leaves. It's that simple…"

"I still don't like it," the blonde said, taking off his helmet, judging the relative safety of the enclosed room. Virgil followed his example, taking off the mask, gloves and jacket. Staking a seat next to him, he looked over his boyfriend's shoulder.

"Watcha working on?"

"Research," Gear said curtly.

"About…?"

"Serial Killers."

"Fun."

"Mm-hmm."

There was a long awkward pause. Virgil hated these—they had known each other for _how_ long? There weren't supposed to be any awkward silences between them. He's probably mad that I kissed Hotstreak—c'mon, it didn't mean anything…

_Did it?_ The devil on his shoulder asked him. _Was it merely nothing to you?_

_Of course it was—I don't care what happens to him…_ Static reasoned.

_Not true_, the angel on the other shoulder said. _You are a good and true person, Virgil—you care about people._

_I don't care about Hotstreak the way I care about Richie._

_Again_, the devil wondered, _is that the _true_ story?_

Static shuddered and shook his head. Gear noticed this, but didn't comment. After another subsequent shudder from the electric hero, Gear rolled his eyes and said, "If you're cold, put your coat back on."

"I'm not cold."

"Then why were you shuddering?"

"Because you gave me the mental image of me and Hotstreak going at it…"

Gear's fist came down hard on the control panel. Barely holding in his anger, he gritted out, "Don't even joke about that."

"I wasn't—just thinking about…ah, Jesus…that ain't right."

Gear couldn't help but imagine the same scene, except _he_ was a part of it as well. Yet for some reason, instead of revulsion, he thought it felt…_right_. All three of them, together, three as one meddled together…

"Yeah," he forced himself to agree. "Just ain't right."

Static's shock box buzzed suddenly. He answered it then cursed loudly. "He's WHERE? All right, we'll be right there. Rich," he turned to his boyfriend, fear and panic evident in his eyes. "Hotstreak's in the hospital wing—he's burning up, and not in the good way."

* * *

_Sick bay, Watchtower, 12:10 pm_

They arrived and pushed their way through the throng of heroes that had gathered around to find out what was going on. Muttering an apology to Kara as he pushed her to one side, Static dragged Gear over to Superman, who stood just outside the room, looking in. the hero's face was etched with concern.

"Superman, what happened?" Static demanded.

"J'onn found him in your apartment with a dangerously high fever. He was making his routine check-ins, and found Francis passed out of the couch. Would you mind explaining what happened?" It wasn't an accusatory tone, but Static felt the full blow of it. He was, after all, the last person to have seen Hotstreak before…

He chanced a look into the room beyond. His jaw dropped and he felt as if he was going to be sick.

There was a lone light shining down from the ceiling, illuminating the figure in the hospital bed. Hotstreak was deathly pale, the majority of his clothes having been removed to help him cool down faster, but to no avail. The dark red hair was a sharp contrast to his face that had now taken on a most deathly pallor, his mouth was parted open, drawing shallow breaths. His green eyes had closed, and dark circles had appeared under them.

Static brushed past Superman and rushed over to the hospital bed. He was instantly reminded of the old quote: 'this is a hospital…I don't do hospitals…' He stopped and took Hotstreak's hand, and felt his pulse. The hero couldn't believe it. He had an irregular heartbeat—too irregular. It hit him abruptly—Hotstreak…Francis was dying.

The redhead's eyes cracked open and locked with those of the hero. There was a pleading look in those jade orbs, now glassy and glazed over, misting over…

"You have to take the bracelets off," he begged, sweat running down his forehead, his breathing more labored by the minute. And Static was getting more and more panicked by the minute. Hotstre—Francis' body temperature was rising too quickly: 105 degrees. He was dying. But how?

"Please man," he begged, his hand weakly gripping the hero's gloved hand. "Take them off."

It suddenly hit him. Before Hotstreak had come up to the Watchtower to stay with them, Static remembered asking Gear to find Francis Stone's hospital records, just in case of an accident, they'd know what to do. In them, it mentioned a kid weakened by a bad immune system from birth. As a baby, he suffered from a low white blood cell count. However, recent doctor's reports told that Hotstreak's white blood cell count had jumped to incredible numbers, meaning that he couldn't get sick. The fire powers helped to fend off bacteria and viruses. _The immunity was due to his powers. His powers were saving his _life.

And if he didn't use his powers on a regular basis, he'd get sick, and he'd more than likely relapse. Extracting his hand, he charged up, sparks flying from his fingers. There was an electric code he had used to lock the bracelets in place. He only had a matter of seconds before Francis' situation became overly critical.

_Zap!_ One bracelet came off—Francis' breathing became more ragged, and his eyes closed, squinting in extreme discomfort. He looked deathly pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, and Static could see his heart palpitating in his chest. _Irregular heartbeat—Jesus, I'm losing him!_

He rushed to get the other one off and fumbled around, hands sweaty and clammy, his own breathing quickened in panic. _The code, the code…please work! Please work!_

Finally the last leaden bracelet fell away and Francis' body heated up to an extremely high level. Static swore that his heart had stopped. _No_!

Then he saw the sparks on the other man's fingers. He called over his shoulder, "J'onn, lock us in! Francis," he whispered in his ear, "hold on, and don't let go, whatever you do. Focus on my voice, I'm here for you."

For a moment, Francis relaxed, his head falling back onto the pillow, breathing still labored and shallow. Sparks flew from his fingers, then Static saw smoke beginning to billow, then to his relief, tiny flames on his fingertips. He let out the breath he had been holding and allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.

He felt sweat run down his face, then realized that the room's temperature had risen dangerously. It wasn't just him—the air around him was hazy with desert-like heat. And it was getting steadily hotter and hotter…

Francis' body convulsed, and the redhead gripped the sheets with white knuckles, handsome face contorted with a fearsome grimace of pain. Throwing his head back into the pillow, he let out a scream that mingled with Static's own yell of shock as the flame-haired meta-human burst into flames.

The air around him became dry and extremely arid, and though he was engulfed in flames, Francis seemed totally at ease. The flames licked at bare skin, not a burn to be seen. The smell of burning flesh that static had expected was non-existent, instead was the sensation and the…natural beauty before him.

He had never actually watched a fire burning before, and now that he had the chance, he found himself drawn in, enraptured, caught in the inferno. There was something about Francis that made him the personification of fire: dangerous, yet irresistible in the sense of being someone who wasn't afraid to experience raw emotions. Like fire, he was ever-changing, destructive, and yet could easily be defeated through the likes of fire and need of air. Without oxygen, a fire cannot thrive. Was that why the redhead craved freedom so much? Did he know this? Did he know that without room to breathe, he would fail to survive?

The flames, raw, primitive and simple, were still so beautiful and hypnotic, Static found himself drawing closer and closer to the flaming man. Francis' grip on the bedclothes had lessened, and he lay back, relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep and relaxed, almost in a meditative state. Most of the redhead's body was bare but for the jeans he wore beneath the sheets, the sweat that had perspired there evaporated by the fire.

Static took a dare. He stepped closer to the flames, reached his hand out and put it right into the flames. His jaw dropped. He didn't burn. He didn't even feel heat. What did this mean?

_Does he…does he trust me?_

He reached out and took the man into his arms and held him to his chest, feeling the burn of the flames this time, but as he held him, the flames dissipated and Francis' tense frame relaxed into his embrace, his head lolling onto his shoulder, exhausted.

Before Francis blacked out, he said, almost too quietly to be heard, "Thank you."

"Anytime, man," Static told him, "Anytime."

* * *

_Sick Bay, 12:15 pm_

Gear struggled to keep his emotions in check. From where he stood, he could see it clearly: the look on Static's face as the hero gazed down onto the other man in his arms, holding him to his chest like a mother protecting her one and only child. There was love in that gaze, whether static knew it or not, and it tore at Gear's heart.

_He said it didn't mean anything. He lied…_ Regretfully, he turned away from the window into the hospital room, and marched out of the hospital wing of the Watchtower, almost bumping into Batman, who was coming in to check on the situation.

"I'm going on patrol," he said in parting.

"But you're not on the roster for the next two days," the Dark Knight pointed out.

"I need some air…"

"Richie…"

The super-genius stopped, turned and fixed his most heated glare at the elder hero. "Listen, _Bruce_—I don't need you breathing down my neck."

Unabashed, and quite calmly, Batman asked, "Don't you want Virgil…?"

Gear interrupted him, "He's busy. Besides, it's not like he'll miss me." With that, he turned his back and marched out, inwardly seething. Batman stood still as a statue, his eyes narrowing. Something wasn't right at all. When the Dark Knight turned around and saw the scene before him, he resisted the urge to run after Gear and drag him back in kicking and screaming if need be.

_This whole thing is going straight to hell_, he thought_, and it's taking the three of them along for the ride.

* * *

_

_Sick Bay, 1:14 am_

When Francis came to many hours later, he was still lying in the hospital wing, this time in a new bed, the clean white sheets pulled up to his chin. An IV was stuck into the crook of his left elbow, and next to him was a chair occupied by one very frightening individual.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he swore, nearly jumping out of his skin as Batman sat forward. "_Shit_, man—do you do that to everyone here?"

"Get used to it. Francis," the hero started, handing him a stack of stapled documents, "tell me if this looks familiar."

His eyes still bleary, the redhead roved over the notes and recognized a certain handwriting. "This is my doctor's writing. Wait, are these from…?"

"Your stay at the hospital when you were a child—these are the documents the doctors kept."

"I thought these were confidential…" He groaned, suddenly realizing who he was talking to. "I figured _you_ of all people would go this far." He could have imagined it, but Francis could have sworn he saw the ghost of a wry smile beginning to tug at Batman's lips. "I suppose you know of my methods?"

"Let's face it, Bats—you're so unpredictable it's predictable, if that makes any sense."

"Plenty. Back to business, though—I did my research and found out a few things about you, things that not even doctors knew about."

"Like…" the redhead looked a little worried when he saw the Dark Knight's shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. "Like the manner of your mother's death."

This was what he had feared to hear. Nevertheless, he sat back, propped up by pillows as Batman began the short history.

"Your mother was a young woman by the name of Bridget Williams, married one Jack Stone sometime in the early eighties. As far as I know, you are their only surviving child. Your mother was a businesswoman in order to pay the bills, what your father did is still debated, but that's not the issue here. They divorced when you were two, your mother gaining custody.

"When you were three, your mother had just picked you up from daycare just like any other day…"

"The accident?"

"Yes."

Batman watched the red-haired man take a deep breath and nodded his approval to continue. The dark Knight said, "She was crossing an intersection, an incoming truck had lost its brakes…"

"A side collision…" Francis' voice was low, barely audible, and quiet as if he were witnessing a ghostly apparition. "There was a side collision on the driver's side. I was in the back seat…right-hand side…I…"

"You remember the accident?" it was difficult for him to mask the apparent shock in his tone. Batman wondered to himself; _Imagine your _very first_ memory being the violent death of your parents._ The memory of Bruce's parents' deaths certainly wasn't his first memory, but damaging all the same. To think that Francis Stone's first memory was a tragic car accident…_No wonder he was messed up as a kid…_

"The accident claimed your mother's life," Batman continued, noting the numb look on the other man's face, the eyes seemingly lifeless, devoid of any visible emotion. "She was pronounced dead at the scene. The truck driver spent two months in jail for vehicular manslaughter—a crime in and of itself—and you were given to your father to raise."

"You can see how that turned out…"

"There's more." He paused, trying to find the right way to put this. Batman was normally quite adept with words—he always knew what to say and when to say it and how to say it. This was one of the more…interesting…things he'd ever have to talk about.

"Francis, at the hospital, the pediatricians were concerned about your well-being, mostly because of an abnormally high body temperature—for most people, regular body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit…"

"I know that, no need to insult my intelligence."

"Yours was 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit." He let the words sink in before he continued. "Later reports indicated that this had been present since birth—you've always been this way."

"But…"

"Yes?" he asked patiently.

"When…" he paused, trying to put his thoughts to words, "the Big Bang…I got fire as my power. Are you saying…?"

"The pyro-kinetic abilities you've had your whole life. there are many scientists an biologists that believe all humans have the capacity for what we call 'paranormal abilities', such as telepathy, psycho-kinesis, precognition, and in your case…the ability to create fire using only your mind.

"The long and short of it is, the mutagen gas helped bring these abilities to light, powers you've had up until then left uncultivated, and as you grew, so did your power. When you were hospitalized, that was when you had accumulated all that power, and had no output for it. The Big bang, in a literal sense, saved your life—if you didn't have the output for all that excess energy, it would backfire…"

"And I'd get sick," he finished, finally seeing where this was going. "So I'm guessing I won't be wearing the bracelets anymore?"

"Don't get me wrong, Hotstreak," Batman's tone became dangerous, "I don't trust you at all. Because of this little oversight…"

"_Little_? I almost _died, _you heartless bastard!" he scoffed. Batman ignored him. "You won't be wearing the bracelets, but my earlier comment still stands." Then, as if to emphasize his point, Batman stood from his chair and leaned in close to the redhead's face, making sure he got the point clear, "You screw up, and I _will_ take you down."

With that, he left the room, muttering a quick 'good night' before closing the doors behind him, also leaving the documents with Francis. The redhead looked over tiny pieces of paper—photocopies—and his eyes started to water up for the firs time since…well, he couldn't remember.

They were photocopies of he and his mother, and a sampling of baby pictures of himself. Francis glanced at the door that batman had walked through and shook his head. As long as he lived, he'd never be able to understand that guy.

Batman himself rounded the corner and stopped in front of the lone eavesdropper. "Satisfied?"

Gear's expression was unreadable, but for a flash of guilt that appeared as a specter on his face. He lifted his head and stared long at the wall before nodding. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Batman said as he glided by, "not yet."

* * *

_Virgil's room, 2:02 am_

Virgil sat on the edge of his bed in his darkened room, his head in his hands. He felt like he was going to be sick. He felt like he wanted to curl up into a little ball and die. He felt like doing a lot of things, but confronting Richie wasn't one of them. Virgil had come to the startling conclusion that he dreaded above all else: he loved Francis Stone.

_When did this happen?_ he wondered. _How, and why?_ When did it start—did it begin all those years ago, when they were still in high school? Did feelings begin to fester like an open wound inside him since the first throw down, the first punch? Was it after the Big Bang? Was seeing F-Stop be so powerful and witness him possess such raw and unbridled power the trigger that made his heart beat in crazy ways?

At the time, he thought those feelings were nothing but hate, and the heartbeats would only be attributed to adrenaline rushing through his veins during every fight. Virgil realized something suddenly.

Every time he was near him, he felt the same surge of adrenaline, the same bolt of electricity that compelled him to go on the defensive. At first, he thought it was simply a conditioned response…but now he knew better.

He loved him.

But he also loved Richie. In fact, he loved Richie more. But now…

Virgil felt the lone tear fall down his cheek before it registered that he was crying. What was he going to do?

Sighing, he answered the shock box as it signaled hisa attention. It was J'onn, telling him there was a possible lead in the Destroyer case. Standing and putting on his Static costume, Virgil paused. He held his mask in front of him, feeling the material with his thumb.

A mask…it was all a façade. He was not naïve, he decided as he placed the white material over his face. He knew that you couldn't escape your problems by putting on a mask and pretending they weren't there. He'd have to face Richie when he got back.

* * *

_Dakota, 2:55 am_

The bartender he had spooked the other night, he was an issue. Who was that tall black man with the cornrows? Why did he look so familiar? Where had he seen him before?

The Destroyer sauntered down the same road on his way to the very bar he had killed the young man in just a day prior. Maybe, if he was lucky, the bartender would be working tonight.

He allowed himself a tiny smile of contentment, not cat-like…more like a panther on the prowl. That bartender, whoever he was, would certainly be a welcome change to the usual fare. Tall, muscular, more than likely a great long-distance runner, powerful, and better yet—he looked intelligent. The Destroyer loved to hunt intelligent prey.

He walked into the bar, late at night, just as before. There was no one else in the bar and, judging from the way the glasses and bottles were stacked, they were about to close up for the night.

The curtain covering the doorway to the back room was thrown back as the tall black man strode behind the bar, white towel over his shoulder, not noticing the figure standing in the shadows until he spoke.

"Hello there."

Visibly anxious, the bartender threw the towel down onto the bar and stared at him levelly. "You the guy that bumped off Ricky?"

_Ricky? Hmm…must have been the name of Miranda's husband…_ "As a matter of fact, yes, yes I am."

"You sick fuck."

The Destroyer chuckled mirthlessly and advanced quickly, hoisting himself over the bar so that he stood not two feet from his intended victim. The bartender took a cautionary step back and instinctively fell into a fighting stance as the serial killer walked forward.

The bartender kept his eyes focused on the killer's. He learned through years of experience—you watch their eyes, you can always tell where they'll strike next. But he knew that he was in trouble. The man had never gone up against a psychopath before.

"You know what? You're right—I _am_ a sick fuck, aren't I?" even in the dim light, he could make out a few facial features: the killer was also tall, white, golden blonde hair, steely gray eyes, kind of on the skinny side, but practically oozed charisma. The bartender was instantly reminded of Ted Bundy…_only this guy is much worse…_

"What are you planning?" he asked, stalling for time, even though he was sure of the answer.

"What am I planning?" the Destroyer considered it as if it were a poignant question. "Let's see—first, I'm going to take you out back, make you scream and beg for a quick death, then," he whipped out his favorite curved knife, "Maybe I'll skin you, still alive. And if I'm in the mood, take your heart as well? Hmm? How does that sound?"

He yelped in surprise as the bartender threw the towel in his face. The split second it took to tear the cloth away was more than enough for the one on the defensive. The bartender had taken a bottle of whiskey and stuffed a wad of paper towels into the neck of it, setting afire with a lighter. He threw it at the feet of his assailant and ran for cover out the back room.

Even though he heard the explosion of flames in his bar, he still kept running, grabbing his coat as he ran out the back door. Through the dingy alley, splashing through muddy puddles and skirting around dumpsters and trash cans, he ran faster than he had ever run before.

Overhead, he saw the one person he knew who could help him. Whether or not he would help was another issue, but he had no time to think about it. The bartender bravely set off after the superhero on foot, praying to whatever gods would hear him—Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha or whoever else was listening—that he wouldn't run into the killer.

* * *

_Dakota, 3:14 am_

Static caught movement on the ground below him. Someone was following him. He slowed his passage a bit, only slightly so his pursuer wouldn't be able to catch on. At the next block, he landed on the ground and took a look around at his surroundings.

Years of working with Batman had honed his natural senses and reflexes. He heard his pursuer before he saw him. Using this knowledge, he made himself scarce, hiding behind a dumpster as his shadow ran past and into the empty street. There were no street lights here, and the street was cloaked with darkness. Through the darkness, however, Static could see the bewilderment evident in the shadow's body language.

The shadow's shoulders hunched in defeat, sighed loudly, dejectedly, then turned to walk away…

Then found himself flat against a brick wall, propelled there by the force of static cling. Static used a ball of electricity to hold the runaway on the wall. The tall black man winced as the herowalked closer. In the provided light, Static said, "End of the line, man—why don't you tell me why you were…"

He gasped and his eyes grew wide. The person in front of him was not the Dakota Destroyer. In fact, the man he had been chasing was the last person he had ever expected to run into. Static was, sure enough, looking into the startled, shocked and bewildered face of Ivan "Ebon" Evans.

* * *

A/N: Who saw _that_ one coming? God, this chapter took so long to get done, between school and other activities. Hope y'all enjoy. Read and Review! 


	6. Chapter 6: Eye of the Tiger

Chapter 6: Eye of the Tiger

Author's notes: I just realized that I haven't given credit where credit was due. I need to personally thank all my reviewers for being so supportive of this fic. Believe me, "Courage Under Fire" wouldn't have gotten as far as it did without your continuing support. I need to thank **Saturn's Hikari**, **Sailor Vegeta**, **Dimitri Aidan**, **SnakeMistress**, **Lotus-chan**, **leev**, **YaoiCyberCat**, **Ginger** **Alli**, **Blagnessxchan**, **Nikana**, **Raving-Lunatic, CD**, **dadsnavygirl** and anyone else I may have forgotten. You guys are the greatest, and are excellent writers yourselves. Keep up the great work, and I can't wait to read more from all of you!

Disclaimer: don't own Static Shock. I wish I did though—cuz then the boys would be mine…ALL MINE! Muahahahaha! Ahem, yes…quite.

Warnings: Major angst in this chapter, character torture (coughRichiecough), SLASH, some violence, sexuality, and more from our favorite serial killer. Hey, this is PG-13 for a reason…

* * *

_Dakota, 3:16 am_

Static and Ivan were at a stalemate. The hero's blatant look of astonishment was nothing compared to the expression on the older man's face. Ivan struggled against the bonds of static cling, to no avail. They stayed that way, staring at each other for a long, breathless moment.

"Hey Hero," Ivan spoke up after a time, "Think you can let me go?"

"Y-you're supposed to be…" he stammered.

"Dead?" he finished for him. "Yeah, I know. Hell, it was my idea."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, can we go somewhere else and talk about this?" he asked, his eyes glancing to and fro, searching the shadows for something.

"You think someone's following you?"

"No, I know someone's following me. We can't talk here—I'll go peacefully, I swear on my father's grave." His tone and expression were so earnest that for the first time, Static had a hard time denying him this simple request. For once, he felt like he could actually trust Ebon…Ivan, Ivan—he was Ivan now. Not Ebon—Ebon no longer existed.

"What did you have in mind?" Static asked, the static cling dissipating. Ivan roughly pulled himself away from the wall, brushing off the sleeves of his old olive green army coat. "You remember how to get to the old subway station?"

"Vaguely."

"Don't worry, there's a shortcut I know, not too far from here. C'mon, we'll be there in about thirty minutes," Ivan waved at him to follow him on foot. Static rolled his eyes and whipped out his disk.

"We could get there a lot faster if we flew."

Ivan turned back around and arched an eyebrow. "You telling me you trust me enough…?"

Static shrugged. "Circumstances being what they have been for me for the past few days, right now, I don't care if you're the Destroyer or Charles Manson. Hop on."

Ivan regarded him suspiciously for a moment or so before joining him on the disk. They sped away into the early morning twilight, and Ivan said to the hero, "Listen Static, I know you don't trust me—honestly, I don't trust you either. But there are a couple things you need to understand, a few things you need to know. You and only you."

"Can you be any more cryptic?"

Ivan laughed. "You think I'm bad? You should meet Serendipity and The Kids."

"_The Kids_?"

* * *

_Abandoned Subway Station, Dakota, 3:34 am_

"The _Kids_", Static later found out, were the newest generation of Bang Babies, all of whom lived in the old station. They were a healthy mix of teenagers, some young children and a couple adults. Most of the teenagers were the unofficial leaders, but apparently Ivan was the Supreme Leader, if their reaction to his appearance was any indication.

Many of them stumbled out of outcroppings and makeshift beds, still dressed in pajamas except for a few of the older kids who were on guard duty. Two of them, a lanky Asian boy in an ice-blue t-shirt and dark jeans with his longish hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, and a short white girl with bobbed blonde hair wearing a pink tank top and jeans, watched Ivan arrive with the hero. There were fairy wings growing out of the girl's back, and she flitted up to them gracefully, her doll-like features contorted with concern.

"Ivan! We were so worried! Akira and I, we heard…"

"You heard right, Pixie," he said, walking past her, noting the worry on her fey features. "He got too close tonight. If it happens again, I'm not taking any chances—we'd have to leave."

"We can't leave!" a young boy of Middle Eastern descent said determinedly from behind Akira, the teen in the light blue shirt. Akira held the boy by the shoulders protectively, and the smaller one said, "This is our home!"

"If the killer gets too close, Ibrahim," Ivan told him, ruffling the boy's hair lovingly as if he were a little brother, "we won't have much of a choice."

More teenage bang babies came forward, asking so many questions it made Static's head spin. Ivan turned them all away, telling them they had their duties, and asked Ibrahim where he could find Natasha.

"Who's Natasha?" Static asked.

"You'll see," Ivan answered, a foreign smile on his face. Static had seen smiles like that before—it was the same smile he usually sported when thinking about Richie. _But on Ebon—Ivan—it looks so…weird_.

He led him towards the remnants of the subway coach, allowing him entry into the small furnished room. It had been furnished with cloth of deep reds and purples, cushions various pieces of furniture scattered about, and hand-made tapestries hanging from the ceiling. It reminded Static of a fortuneteller's home, and sure enough, a curtain was pulled away, revealing a tall black woman dressed in bohemian garb. Her bare feet moved soundlessly over the floor, and the golden anklets clinked along with the various necklaces and arm bangles she wore. Her long black hair was kept back with a colorful scarf tied about her head.

"This," Ivan introduced, "is Natasha, though everyone here calls her Serendipity."

"Good Fortune," Static nodded in understanding. Serendipity stepped forward, and Static noticed that, though she was African-American, her skin was light, and her eyes a pale shade of blue. It suddenly occurred to him, _She's blind_. She lifted her hands to cup his face and smiled.

"Static Shock," she said with all fondness, her voice soft and deep, soothing like a gentle brook. "What goodness heaven has bequeathed to us this day!" her voice was accented only slightly. Ivan took one of her hands and held it firmly.

"He's come to help us with the Destroyer," he told her, in a tone that was as foreign to Static's ear as Sharon's cooking actually being fit for human consumption. Serendipity nodded knowingly, then said in a faraway voice, "_For each man kills the thing he loves…_"

"That poem!" Static recognized it immediately. "Do you know something—anything—that can help us?"

"You sir," she pointed a single finger at his chest, "are the coward who kills with a kiss." She turned away and disappeared behind the curtain, then started chanting in an unfamiliar language. Static and Ivan both sent blank looks towards that curtain. Ivan nudged him with his elbow and cocked his head in the seer's direction. "See what I mean? Sometimes I think I'd rather have Miss Cleo than 'Tasha here."

"What did that mean?"

Ivan shrugged. "Beats me—she often comes up with weird shit that don't make sense until it actually happens. C'mon, you hungry?"

Static was getting more and more perplexed by the minute. Just who the hell was this guy and what did he do with Ebon? "You're feeding me now?"

Ivan shrugged again. "If I don't, I'll hear hell from Pixie—she's a real sweetheart—the only good cook here, too."

"Yeah?" he was starting to become much more interested in the present situation. "How did they all become…?"

"Remember the last big bang? Yeah, I guess there was some freak wind that night, and all of them got a whiff of it. That, and Alva's been up to his usual tricks again."

"Figures," Static said with a dejected sigh. "Like I don't have enough to worry about."

Ivan stepped out of the subway car and took a deep whiff of the air. "Smells like she's making pancakes. Can you spare a few minutes so I can explain?"

"Might as well."

They entered a part of the subway terminal that Static had never seen before. It was fashioned into a mess hall of sorts, and the kitchens stood off to the side. The "kitchens" held no fancy stoves or ovens—mostly toasters, toaster ovens, microwaves, hotplates and the occasional George Foreman Grill.

Pixie fluttered around from stovetop to stovetop flipping pancakes and pouring drinks for the predicted outpouring of hungry children and adults. She spotted the duo and waved energetically…well energetically for 3:30 in the morning.

"You can sit in here, guys. I need to check on the young'ins." With that, she took off the soiled apron she had been wearing and flew off over their heads in the opposite direction, leaving the two men to themselves.

Ivan sat at the rickety poker table in the center of the room and bade the hero sit across from him. "Now, I've got some explaining to do."

* * *

_Watchtower, 7:45 am_

"Hey, Gear? Got a minute?"

"Depends," he said flatly, watching his tone. Gear still felt the shock of the discovery of Hotstreak's original powers, as well as jealousy, mistrust, and overall dislike for the meta-human. And yet, as much as he wished he could hate him, he couldn't do it. Out of the goodness in his heart, he couldn't bring himself to come right out and say it.

And to make this situation all the more unsettling, Static was nowhere to be found. J'onn had said something about a lead in the Destroyer case, and Gear assumed that Static didn't want to bother him. _Or maybe he couldn't bring himself to look at me…_

Whatever the reason, the electric hero hadn't been seen for hours, and not a word had come in about his whereabouts either. Gear really wanted nothing to do with anyone right now, given the sour mood he was in. In many ways, he had a hard time putting a finger on his exact mood—he was hurt, felt betrayed, lost and alone, but he was also angry, at himself and at Hotstreak. To say he was also confused would also be an understatement.

"You don't feel like talking?" Francis asked, sincerity etched onto his still slightly-pale face. Most of his color had come back, but the mere fact that he was still hospital-bound still kept him on-edge.

Gear took a seat beside the hospital bed and slouched in the chair, arms crossed, staring evenly at the flame-haired meta-human. "Yes, you're right—I don't feel like talking…"

"To me," he finished the thought. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "Look, I don't know what happened yesterday while I was out of it—all I remember…"

"Was the kiss," Gear finished for him.

He felt a little guilty. "Well, um…yeah. Then I sorta, you know, blacked out."

Gear nodded in understanding. "Feel better now?"

Francis cast a nervous glance around the room. "I'll be better once I'm outta here. I swear to God I hate hospitals. Listen," he said quickly, changing the subject. "I know I'm not the easiest guy to get along with…"

"No kidding?" he said sarcastically. Francis continued, ignoring the gibe.

"And I was thinking that maybe we got off on the wrong foot…"

"We got off on the wrong foot alright," he glared, leaning forward suddenly. "Back in high school, we…" he stopped himself in just enough time, but he knew he had already said too much.

"High school?" Francis' expression, still wan, took on the appearance of confusion, and, to Gear's consternation, a brief period of recognition. "We went to high school…the same high school? Dakota Union High?" his jade eyes narrowed as he studied him, and Gear squirmed under the meticulous examination of his face. Thank God the visor did something to hide the truth of his identity.

And thank God he also knew how to hide it for so long. Robert Hawkins was still the only person, other than Virgil, who knew his true identity—Richie still, after all these years, had never told his parents the truth. He had told them he was joining the military and was staying overseas for long periods of time, and he cautioned that he might not call very often. For the large part, they believed him. Okay, his father seemed a little suspicious, but after seeing his son a year later, he fell hook, line and sinker. Richie would be forever grateful for Green Lantern's boot-camp-like training courses for new superheroes—it helped with the charade. John Foley had seen how much muscle his son had gained, and the strength and honor with which he carried himself like a soldier that made all the difference.

But they still didn't know the truth.

Telling his father that his best friend was African American was bad enough—to also explain to his father that he was in a relationship with said friend nearly drove the man up the wall. To come right out and say that he was also a superhero—Gear in fact—that little piece of news just might kill him.

_If I'm lucky_, he thought darkly. Yes, even after all those years, he still disliked his father for his bigotry, if nothing else.

Francis had given up on trying to put two and two together. The redhead leaned back into the pillows that propped him up and leaned his head back, feeling the heat of the overhead lamp on his skin. He chuckled lightly, and Gear found himself drawn in with that small laugh, and mesmerized by that peaceful smile.

"'_A riddle wrapped in a mystery in an enigma',"_ he muttered. "I've heard that somewhere, I can't remember where—but it suits you two."

"How's that?" he asked. _He must mean me and Virgil_.

"There's something about the two of you that's so familiar to me, like I've known you longer than I thought—like I've known you since before the Big Bang. And no matter how long I think about it, I just get more confused. You," he looked straight at him, his eyes locking in place with those of the other man. "Are a mystery to me. Static is the enigma. Somehow, I feel like…like I _know_ you…from somewhere."

"Keep guessing—I'm sure you won't figure it out."

"What makes you think I haven't figured it out already?"

That question felt like a slap to the face and a kick in the gut. Gear suddenly felt like he was going to be violently ill. _He knows!

* * *

_

_Abandoned Subway Station, "Mess Hall", 4:00 am_

After they had finished eating, Ivan began his story. The taller, older man pushed the soiled plates and glasses out of the way and leaned against his elbows on the tabletop. Static sat opposite him, watching him, studying him.

Ivan had changed—more so than in appearances. His skin was light rather than overly dark, his eyes and face stuck forever in that permanent scowl. Those eyes, however, were sharp, deep, like a tiger's—nothing escaped their gaze, and they pierced you down to your core. Those dark eyes, inky black like the distant shadows of the room, looked up at him, fixing him to his seat.

Ivan looked much older than his actual age. Static surmised that Ivan was somewhere in his thirties by now, if you estimated that he was closer to twenty by the Big Bang, and almost ten years had passed… _He's got to be older than the rest of us…and damn but it shows._

Lines of worry were etched onto his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes, possibly the result of many a sleepless night. And given the way he had put away all that food, one would guess that he had eaten even less than usual. Thinner, taller, and yet those once strong shoulders sagged as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But he was far from broken.

"I was slated to get out of prison by next week. I knew that as soon as I was on the outside, I was a prime target. Look at me, Static," Ivan held his arms out, showing him the strain that prison had taken on him. _Francis definitely looks much better,_ he decided. _How he managed, I'll never know._

The man continued, "I'm no longer in the prime of life—I was as good as dead if I went out there. So I cut a deal with the warden…I told him it would be better in the end."

"What was the deal?"

"Make it look like I had died while in prison," he said it like it was an obvious answer.

"You faked your own death? Why? Trying to escape a major throw-down can't be your only reason."

"That, and less of a fuss when I got out—the less mess, the better. That's what the warden and I agreed on."

"But the funeral…"

"Staged. Not like anyone went anyway," he stated dismally. "The coffin was full of bricks and rumpled clothes. If and when I ever actually die, that grave'll be waitin' for me."

"And the fire?"

"We let one of the serial arsonists loose for an hour, gave him some matches an' gasoline, an' just gave him free reign," he shrugged. "Pretty simple. Now I'm out of the clink, out of the warden's hair, an' I'm trying to make do with a sucky job as a bartender. And thanks to the Dakota Destroyer, I don't have a bar anymore."

"You saw the Destroyer?" Static nearly jumped out of his seat. Ivan crossed his arms and nodded tiredly. "I was witness to one of his murders—Rick Carmichael…"

"Miranda's husband. Did he say why he did it?"

"He killed Rick because he was 'a witness'. I'm not sure why he killed Miranda—she was a real sweetheart. I didn't know much about her, other than she liked to come in on Thursday nights and order a couple Cosmo's. She'd meet some guy there…"

"Wait, wait," Static held up a hand to halt the narrative. "She was seeing someone else?"

Ivan shrugged again. "I thought they were good friends—they seemed pretty close at first. After a while, I noticed things…"

"She was having an affair," Static said, nodding in understanding, his voice betraying that his mind was elsewhere. Ivan could swear he saw the gears turning inside the hero's head. _What is he thinking?_ he wondered briefly.

Static was deep in thought, mulling over this news, the evidence that had been collected, and the poem…

That was when it hit him.

Static shot up out of his seat and started reciting hurriedly, "_Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword_. Oh my God, that's _IT_!" he rounded on Ivan like a caged animal, slamming his hands palms down on the tabletop. "He's dealing out retribution! This guy thinks he's a vigilante against cheaters!"

Ivan's shock was minimal until he put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Wait a sec—I think you've got something." He also stood and paced the kitchen, saying as he walked, "Now that you mention it, I think I've met all of the other victims."

"How?" the hero asked suspiciously.

Ivan sent him a glare. "You know, some crack addicts are also alcoholics…" he trailed off, his eyes growing wide, then he cursed vehemently. Static knew exactly what he was about to say. "When someone knows their lover is cheating on them…"

Ivan finished the thought, "The first thing they do is drown their sorrows in a bar! That's where the Destroyer gets his victims' information! Holy shit…" he fell back into his chair and said despairingly, "In _my_ bar—I was aiding him."

"You didn't know—it's not your fault. No court would convict you…"

"That's what you don't get, Hero," he grabbed Static by the collar and pulled him close in desperation. "Listen, Static—I'd rather die than go back to prison! If I found out I was goin' back, I swear to God…I have a revolver armed and ready just in case. Those mother fuckers ain't takin' me alive!"

Static felt a wave of emotions take over him. This was the first time he had ever seen Ivan Evans so desperate for anything. The look in his eyes resembled those of the tiger kept in a dingy old cage, chained to the floor. Try as he might, that tiger kept pacing, waiting, waiting for his chance to run…to be free. Only once he got his chance to flee, he was shot down in cruel twist of fate. Waiting for freedom for so long, only to be given the ultimate form of freedom, freedom from all earthly problems and fears: death. Death was the true essence of freedom.

And right now, that very same tiger was fixing him with the most pathetic, yet most determined stare he had ever seen. Oh yes, this tiger had been shot down more than once, but he was still going…he was still living, holding on to life and that long-sought-after freedom finally afforded to him by a thin thread. God help him if that was taken from him—because it was all he had left.

Static placed his hands on Ivan's shoulders and said with all earnestness, "I won't let that happen. You paid your dept to society. I'm giving Hotstreak a second chance, and now I'm giving one to you too—help us bring this bastard down, and I'll get you the freedom you've always wanted."

"You can promise that?"

"I can come close to your ideal—I just need to know."

"If I do this, you need to swear that you never tell anyone about what's down here. Swear it!"

"I promise!" he said quickly, soberly. Ivan studied his face for a long moment before relinquishing his hold on the hero's shirt. He stepped back a few paces and leaned heavily against the table, one hand reaching up to press against his temple. Static asked worriedly, "You alright, man?"

Ivan nodded mutely, wincing slightly, then straightening, the headache dissipating slightly. "Sorry—after me an' Red separated…I dunno. I just started gettin' lots of headaches, real bad ones. Serendipity does a lot to help wit them—she's a healer I think."

"She seems to be the type. How's your head?"

"It'll be fine—I normally get them when I'm under a lot of stress."

Before Static could ask, he answered his own question. _Of course he can't go see a doctor—how well would that go over? 'oh hey, doc, I know I'm supposed to be dead, but as it turns out, I need you to take a look at my head.' They'd put him in a padded room faster than you can say 'penitentiary'._

"So what's the plan, Hero?"

What _was_ his plan?

"You get a positive ID on the guy?"

It was the first time Ivan had smiled like that in years: that cat-like grin that disturbingly resembled that of a cat with a mouse caught between its paws. He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, an' I can take you right to his address…"

* * *

_Watchtower, Hospital Wing, 7:50 am_

Gear was still in shock, the visor in no way hiding the panic on his face. Francis saw this, and could swear he saw the myriad emotions fleeting across the other man's eyes. He knew him from somewhere, but where?

_Please don't let him guess…please, God_, Gear silently prayed, letting his eyes close, brows furrowed in concentration, as if his prayer would be answered faster if he concentrated on the words, emphasizing every last one of them.

To his surprise and overwhelming relief, Francis dropped the subject. He snorted and smirked, looking at the other man sitting by his bedside. "I won't guess—I know you'll never tell me. I can guess, but I'll probably be wrong."

"Good, lets go with that," he said quickly, covering it up. For a moment, a thought occurred to the bed-ridden meta-human. Was it possible? He studied his face a little closer. The jaw had squared off a bit, he was certainly more buff, the voice deeper, and those eyes…the eyes, he envisioned hidden behind a pair of glasses…

His brain suddenly ground to a halt.

He knew.

* * *

_Dakota, 6:23 am _

"If we hurry, we'll miss the crowds," Ivan said over his shoulder as he led Static through the crumbling subway tunnels. Rodent skeletons littered the tracks, cobwebs fell from the vaulted ceiling like veils, and the crunch of the afore-mentioned rodent bones beneath his boots did nothing to settle Static's nerves.

"How can you just walk around down here? I know half of this stuff wasn't here when you first moved in."

Ivan sent him an apologetic look that went unseen in the semi-darkness. "I haven't been down here in a while. After the second Big Bang, this was closed off—all the Meta Breed were cured, and there were no others."

"Until the Kids came along."

"Yeah."

They carried on in silence until Ivan led them through a narrow crevice in the wall, and in no time at all, Static found himself blinded by the sun's first morning light. They stood in the backyard of a rickety old house. This house had seen better days—the white paint on the outside was peeling and soiled, shutters barely hanging on by their rusty hinges. The windows of the dilapidated townhouse were like eye-less sockets, some one the dusty glass panes broken from incoming rocks thrown by neighborhood boys. The wood of the back porch they were facing was warped and threatened to crack under any weight. Ivan carefully climbed the wooden steps, the weather-beaten boards sagging dangerously under his weight.

Holding a finger to his lips, he pried open the back door and both stepped into the house.

"Aren't you aware that this is breaking and entering?" Static hissed. Ivan shrugged and muttered back, "House don't belong to him, anyway."

The kitchen was, if there was any other way to describe it, disgusting. Anything that was made of metal had rusted, electrical wiring was sticking out of the walls covered with an ugly yellow wallpaper, weathered and stained from years of misuse. The kitchen floor, covered in equally nauseating dusty yellow linoleum tile. This place had obviously not seen an inhabitant since the 70's at least. Dust kicked up under their feet as both men stepped carefully through the room. They walked into the main living room, with another ugly olive-green 70's wallpaper, and brown shag carpet. The furniture looked positively sordid.

Ivan curled his lip in disgust. "I wish I could strangle the interior designer."

Static couldn't help but smile at this. _He has a point…_

They climbed the creaky stairs to the second story, where the first thing they found was the bedroom. They both drew in a sharp breath simultaneously when Ivan slowly cracked the door open.

The bedroom was—other than being decorated in the ugliest colors ever created by mankind—disturbing. The queen-sized bed held rumpled sheets, feather pillows slashed open by a possible knife and at the head of the bed, the mattress and sheets were stained a dark crimson. Feathers from the pillows had stuck to the now-dry red puddle on the hardwood floor, and footprints in red walked about the bed, the occasional droplet of dried blood found marching in line with the footprints. That, and there was a strange sickly-sweet smell permeating the air

Static swore softly and stepped forward. What disturbed them even more was what was on the wall. Written in blood was the same poem found over Miranda's body…was it really only two days ago? _God, it feels like weeks_. And along with the poem were various quotes from the Bible, all of which included smiting the enemies and plunging sinners into Hell.

"Jesus Christ," Ivan gasped. He was bent over a pile of papers and picked up one sheet. "Look at this: it's a marriage certificate. To a 'Lorelei Anne Baker and Miles Albert Fisher'. 'Albert'…shit, that was the name of a serial killer, wasn't it?"

Static only nodded then saw the photos on the floor. He recognized the form—they were more than likely taken by a spy camera. They included pictures of a lovely young woman with an equally handsome man, only over the images of the man, his face was scratched out with a red pen. In a couple, his face had been completely burned by what looked like a cigarette. Disturbing…yes, very disturbing.

"Hey, I think that's Lorelei," Ivan said. "She was real sweet—I only knew her a few days though. She said something about moving away, and after a few days, I never saw her again."

"Was she ever seen with this guy?" Static pulled out a completely different picture, and upon seeing it, Ivan's eyes widened and he shook his head and shuddered. "I sure as hell hope not! That guy in that photo is the killer!"

Static looked at the photo—it was a wedding picture of Lorelei and Miles, whom Ivan had properly ID'd as the killer. Question was…

"If the guy in this photo is her husband, then who's the guy in the other photos…" he didn't need to finish the statement before he groaned and crouched on the floor. "I'm such an idiot! How couldn't I have seen that coming?"

"Seen what?" Ivan asked.

Static fixed him with a pale stare. "Lorelei was cheating on him. He obviously got mad," he said, indicating the walls with the bloody messages, "and…" he trailed off. His vantage point on the ground caught something they had both missed upon entering. There was a faint smudge on the floor, like something heavy had been dragged there. Ivan caught his gaze, then he too, crouched down, peering under the bed. Cautiously, and not without a shaky hand, he pulled away the bed skirt. The result was instantaneous.

Ivan propelled himself backwards with a horror-filled yell and he instantly turned an unhealthy shade of green; Static fell back, leaning back on his hands and felt like he was going to be sick. Gulping down a big breath of air, he finished his earlier statement, "He got mad…and he killed his wife."

Underneath the bed was the slowly decomposing carcass of Lorelei Fisher.

* * *

_Watchtower, 8:30 am_

Sill no sign of Static; Gear was getting worried. He paced around their apartment, going insane for lack of information. Hell, he was _Gear_ for God's sake—he _lived_ off of information.

Francis had been allowed to finish recuperating in his own room, and the redhead was sleeping now. Gear had the door closed and had taken off his helmet. He ran a nervous hand through his blonde hair and took a few deep breaths in order to calm himself.

It was no use. After pacing a little while longer, he gave up. There was nothing for him to do—he was off-duty until Sleeping Beauty was well enough again. He decided now that he had no other alternative other than seeing how the patient was doing.

He entered Francis' room, and tiptoed over to the bed. Richie wasn't wearing his glasses now. He preferred to wear contacts, like he was now, as sometimes the glasses would get in the way. His eyes rested on Francis, fast asleep.

The covers were pulled up to the redhead's chest, one arm draped over his stomach, the other stretched out. His head had rolled to the side facing Richie, the rosy lips parted slightly. His breathing was slow and steady, his handsome tanned face relaxed in a peaceful expression. If Richie hadn't known him better, he would have sworn he was looking at an angel.

He stepped closer to the bed and checked his pulse. Normal, thank God. He allowed himself a small smile as he watched the taller man sleep. This was nice, actually. He had heard somewhere that you can learn a lot about a person by watching them sleep. In this case, he saw…vulnerability. Good god, he thought.

Vulnerability, weakness, fear, pain—he saw all of that. Francis was having nightmares, but of what?

Richie leaned forward closer, brushing aside a lock of red hair that had fallen into the man's face. He twitched in response to the odd contact, but drew in breath when Richie's lips touched his cheek. For as long as he lived, Richie would never understand what possessed him to do that, but it felt good to do it—like a mother soothing a scared child. Well, okay, not really…

He kissed Francis' forehead, his hand reaching up to rest against his shoulder. He pulled away, watching the redhead's face for any hint of awakening. There was none. He decided a split second later what his next action would be. His hand still on the other man's shoulder, he leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against those of the sleeping man.

Francis moaned in his sleep appreciatively, turning his head to greet the foreign, though certainly welcome, lips. Richie pressed forward, savoring the moment. His brain started sending him dangerous signals. As his arm moved to wrap around Francis' waist, he came to the most startling conclusion.

He loved this man.

He pulled away quickly and fled the room, shutting the door behind him in a flurry. He set the helmet on his head again and leaned heavily against the wall. _Shit_, he thought, _double shit. When the hell did this happen?

* * *

_

A/N: I know, it's cruel of me to leave it there…hey cut me a break, I just finished writing two major term papers. Think of this as a reward for all of us. Remember to read and review!


	7. Chapter 7: Going Under

Chapter 7: Going Under

Disclaimer: don't own Static Shock. Is that so hard to understand?

A/N: my thanks to Lotus-chan for pointing out the mistake in the last chapter. You are absolutely right—dead bodies do have a rather strong and nasty odor to them, so apparently I haven't been watching CSI as much as I should be. Oh well, now I know.

Read and Review!

* * *

_Dakota, 6:25 am_

Static felt like he was going to be physically ill. Ivan had already beaten him to the chase, rushing out of the house faster than a sinner with hell on his heels. The hero struggled to keep his breakfast down, the smell finally permeating the whole house. Lorelei had been there for weeks, and it was a marvel to him that the neighbors hadn't called someone about the smell. It didn't occur to him until later that there _were_ no neighbors—this was the last place in Dakota that anyone would want to visit, much less live. Not even the most hardened gangs liked coming through here. This place was a variable ghost town, and that suited Miles Fisher's purposes perfectly.

_My god_, he thought. It was the only thought that kept running in his mind, over and over again like a broken record. _My god…_

He heard sirens in the distance, then heavy footsteps on the stairs. "Static," Ivan called, "I just tipped off the police; we better am-skray before they get here and start asking questions."

Nodding, he followed him back underground, running down the dark passages, intently grateful to be running as far and as fast from that horrid place as possible.

* * *

_Abandoned Subway station, 6:45 am_

Ivan let him pass as he bounded into the old station, slowing to a shaky walk. Even after all these years fighting crime, this was the worst the hero had ever seen. And judging by Ivan's reaction, the ex-bang baby wasn't as hardened as he led one to believe.

By now, everyone there was wide awake. The younger children huddled around the older ones, and Pixie disengaged herself from a crying little girl long enough to question Ivan. "What happened? We heard on the news?"

"It was Lorelei—we found her," he said. Pixie's face paled and her eyes betrayed the hint of stinging moisture behind them. He enveloped her in a hug and held her as her tiny frame shook with grief, tears running like dewdrops down her flower-like face. Static could only watch in confusion as Ivan comforted the small sobbing girl.

Akira came over and gently shook her shoulder. She buried her head into his chest as the boy said quietly to Ivan, "Serendipity said she wanted to see both of you. She said it's urgent."

"Thanks, kid." Ivan led Static back over to the subway car; the older man's face the picture of melancholy.

"How did she know Lorelei?" Static asked. Ivan paused at the doorway of the damaged car, his hand resting against the doorframe. His shoulders sagged with his heavy sigh and he said without facing him, "Lorelei and Pixie were sisters." With that, he entered, not visibly caring if the hero followed him in.

Static paused before entering Serendipity's home, turning about to look over his shoulder at the young bang baby in question. Pixie had collapsed to the floor, kneeling as if in prayer, face buried in her hands as Akira knelt next to her. Other bang babies shed tears of their own, but a few of the older ones had their faces set in grim determination.

Static set his jaw with the same determination. This had to end…

Serendipity was sitting on a cushion on the floor and bade him to sit opposite her. Static obliged, and Ivan saw himself out leaving the two alone. Serendipity sat in a kneeling position, her dark blue layered skirt spread out around her sitting figure giving the illusion of a fairy sitting upon a morning glory. Her long hair was cast over her shoulder, the scarf pulled tight close to her head. She wore an Egyptian ankh around her neck on a black cord and she sighed.

"_Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow_…"

"What does that mean?" he asked.

She lifted her head and recited, "_All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their own peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their own peril._"

"Meaning?" he asked again, totally lost. Serendipity only sighed again and shook her head this time.

"Miles was notorious for quoting Oscar Wilde—he was his favorite author."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"I am afraid…" she trailed off. "I am afraid, that you do not understand…"

"Help me understand! There is not much time left! I have to stop this guy before he strikes again!"

"But he will!" she said firmly, facing him directly, her light blue sightless eyes staring straight at him. "He will strike, whether you like it or not. This time, it will hit home."

"How?"

"You can not hide truth forever, Virgil."

He stood up quickly like a scorched cat. "How did you?"

"Please let peace be upon you, child," she implored, raising her hands to him. "Yes, I know you, that is why I asked Ivan to leave us be. You can not hide truth forever. It is for _you_—and I am not the only one who knows."

"Of course not—I've dealt with bang babies in the past and they've figured me out eventually. But they haven't said anything…"

"I will not reveal you. Just as I know you will not reveal us—you walk with honor, Master Hawkins, honor is _you_."

"Um…thanks?"

"What I tell you involves Master Foley," she stated simply, pausing to allow him to speak.

"Richie? What about him?"

"You and he are more alike than even you know. You are cowards who kill with a kiss."

He was getting very impatient now. "What do you mean by that? 'The coward who kills with a kiss'? That doesn't make any…" then it struck him as to what she was actually saying.

'_For each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard…the coward does it with a kiss_…' He had kissed Francis, Francis had kissed him, and it was _killing_ Richie inside. In a roundabout and figurative way, Virgil had succeeded in killing the one thing that mattered most: his love for Richie. Now he loved another man. And inside, he felt like he was also dying as well.

…_The brave man with a sword…_

And that was exactly what Miles Fisher—the Dakota Destroyer—was doing. He was playing the part of the brave man, the psychotic man, doing everyone he hurt a favor by killing them instantly so that they wouldn't feel emotional turmoil. He was answering their call for help. '_I'm so heartbroken…I wish I could just die…_' That was his plan—to get retribution, for himself and others, then ultimately…

Miles was going after the heartbroken victims, and then kill himself in the process.

Static bounded for the door, Serendipity's calm accented voice stopping him halfway. "You can not stop the wheel when it is already in motion, young hero. The only way to stop _this_ wheel is to break it."

"Which is exactly what I'm going to do."

"One more thing," she called after him. She rose gracefully, her many bracelets, necklaces and bangles clinking together like tiny bells. "Ivan refuses to sell death."

He nodded knowingly. "Hotstreak said that."

"Do you know why Agni said this?"

'Agni'? _Oh wait, Hindu god of fire…right, gotcha…_"Not a clue," he admitted.

She placed a delicate hand on the back of his shoulder, standing tall, her face tilted downwards in a visible expression of sorrow. "Ivan's father was a cruel man, and I feel no shame for speaking ill of this dead man—Ivan and Adam were lucky to live. Their father—the shame of leaving his family like that…" she clenched her fists then took a deep calming breath. "Remember well these words of mine."

"I will, thanks." He proceeded to leave again, but paused, as if expecting her to stop him again. She said nothing, only stood there expectantly. Finally he sighed and wondered, "What should I do?"

"The answer lies within," she said, her voice taking on a faraway tone. "And be not afraid of the darkness—for day's darkest hour resides just before the dawn."

He smiled, reassured, then parted company with her. Serendipity sighed as she heard the curtain over her door settle back into stillness, then straightened her posture. She was having another vision.

"_Day's darkest hour_…"

* * *

_Watchtower, 10:45 am_

"I'm back!" he said animatedly…okay, at least as animatedly as possible considering the type of morning he'd had.

"Okay," was Richie's simple answer. He didn't even sound like he cared…

Virgil stopped dead as he proceeded to take off his mask. Richie was sitting on the couch fixing up some strange mechanism or another—in full civilian dress.

"Rich, what in the hell are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

"WHY ARE YOU IN REGULAR CLOTHES?" he exploded, fearing for minute that his lover had hit his head on something _hard_.

Richie turned to give him a look. "Will you keep it down? Francis is trying to sleep."

"Oh, so you're his nurse now?" he snapped, without completely understanding why.

"Where have you been all this time?" Richie finally asked, hoping he effectively masked his anger.

Virgil threw his arms up in the air. "NOW he asks me. Couldn't have been the minute I walked in the door, could it?"

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Why are _you_? What are you thinking? What if he comes out and sees…?"

"I think he knows, Virg."

"I don't care if…wait, what did you say?" he forgot all about his anger in a heartbeat. A very _panicked_ heartbeat…

"Virgil," Richie said, standing and looking his lover in the eye. "Virgil, I think Francis knows who we are."

"How? How did he find out?"

"I have no idea—he must have put two and two together."

He was shaken, and Virgil had no idea what to say in accordance with this news. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know."

"Great, so now we have our greatest enemies knowing who the hell we are. This is just…"

"Enemies? As in, _plural_?"

Virgil bit his tongue. _Shit!_

"Virgil, where have you been all night? Did you go out on patrol?"

"Yes."

"You answered a couple emergency calls?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"And…you didn't think to call me?"

"I…thought you were busy," was Virgil's lame excuse for an answer.

"Why are you only giving one-word answers?"

"The last one had five words to it, Rich."

"You're hiding something from me."

"No I'm not," he defended himself. For a moment, he debated whether he should really tell Richie about Ivan and the Kids. _I can't do that to them_, he thought, _I gave them my word_.

"Look, I just ran into a couple gang members—nothing big. I swear, Richie," he said, holding up his hands in defeat. "That's all it was."

"No robots?"

"No robots…no aliens, no mad scientists hell-bent on taking over the world…," he started listing all the possibilities on his fingers. "No supervillians, no monsters, no Lex Luthor with a giant-ass rock of kryptonite—none of that. It was a pretty quiet night."

Richie knew he was hiding something big. "Virgil, what aren't you telling me?"

"I…," he sighed and hung his head. He knew there was no way he could lie to him. "I can't say. I gave my word…"

"Yeah? You also gave your word to me when we got together that we wouldn't keep things from each other—what are you hiding?"

"Richie, I'm telling you," he was starting to lose his temper. "I can't tell you. If I did, many people would lose their freedom, and maybe their lives."

"Who? V, if it's as bad as you say," Richie's tone became sympathetic all of a sudden. "If it's really that bad, we're heroes—we can do something about it." He bade his lover sit next to him on the couch so they could talk. It took Virgil a minute or so to will himself to sit in his lover's embrace, and even then his body language suggested he was uncomfortable.

"Richie…look, I really can't tell you."

"C'mon, a hint…clue…allusion…suggestion…anything?"

Virgil only shook his head. "I…it's complicated."

Richie arched an eyebrow, "I'm sure a super-genius could be able to comprehend…"

"Let's do this hypothetically."

Richie shrugged. "Works for me. Shoot."

"Okay," Virgil took off the jacket and gloves, kicking off his boots as well. He lounged back into the cushions and—avoiding eye contact for the most part—began to relate. "Okay, say there was this dude…"

"You?"

"No, someone else—now may I continue?"

He nodded.

"Okay, this guy, right? He's used to have this…condition…only now he's cured. You following?"

"This isn't rocket science, V."

"Thought so—okay, this guy is cured, but see, he's sort of amassed a whole group of people who currently have the same condition he used to have. Problem is, he can't get the treatment to all of them…so they're pretty much living on the streets."

"So this guy is trying to help people like him become cured of some disease? Are we talking physical or mental?"

"Definitely physical here."

"Okay—well, so far, I don't see anything wrong."

"But he used to be in prison…for a felony."

"Aahhh…" a light of understanding finally shone in the blonde's eyes. "So he's afraid to go to anyone because they might not believe him…"

"And he doesn't want to go back to prison. Rich, I swear you should have seen the way he looked at me when he said he'd rather die than go back to prison. I mean, I don't want to say it was pathetic or anything…but it was. He was getting desperate—sometimes, I think that if he didn't have the Kids…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he cut him off. "There are _kids_ involved? V, just how serious is this?"

Virgil was about to speak up when Backpack alerted them to a visitor. Richie got up to answer the door and gave a polite smile to the dark Knight himself.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Is Static back yet?"

"I've been back," Virgil called from the sofa. Batman seemed a little miffed, but he calmly stated, "Next time, do us all a favor and let us know where you are every so often? That usually helps."

"Using sarcasm now, Batman?" Virgil asked innocently. "I think you're hanging out with Gear too much—I think he's starting to corrupt you."

"Ah yes—I'm single-handedly corrupting the universe, one superhero at a time," Richie said, the sarcasm showing full-force. "So why are you here?"

"I think you still might have your prime suspect," Batman said, handing print-outs to the blond. Richie took them in hand and scanned over them. "What are these for?"

"Remember I said that Ivan Evans died in a prison fire?"

Virgil's heart clenched and his stomach did flip flops. _No!_

"I went back to the gravesite," Batman continued. "And I did a carbon scan of it. There is no body in the casket." He emphasized every word in the last sentence. Richie's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed.

"So you're saying…"

"Ebon is still alive—and he's out there."

Virgil felt really bad right now. His face had paled slightly, but it was more than enough for Batman to notice. "Static, are you feeling alright?"

"Might've been something I ate. I…I think I need to lie down for a while."

"You need anything?" Richie asked worriedly. Virgil shook his head and gathered his discarded coat and gloves.

"I'll be fine. Um, excuse me…" he saw himself to his own room, closed the door tight behind him and locked it. Batman grew very suspicious.

"Has he been acting strangely since he got back?"

"That's an understatement," Richie said dryly. "You thinking that he already knew about Ebon, and that's why he left?"

"Perhaps. But," he pulled Richie in close to whisper, "I have an assignment for you. We have a positive ID of the Destroyer; all we need is to track him. Are you up to it?"

Richie had started putting on his armor and packing up as many gadgets as possible. As he put on his helmet, he said, "Lay it on me."

* * *

_Watchtower, Francis' Room, 11:00 am_

He was less than thrilled to awake from _that_ particular dream. Francis' dreams had been full of the most erotic and sensual images his mind had ever conjured and most of the action centered on him and Gear and Static. He briefly wondered whether they kept the masks on for sex, but as he let his fantasies run rampant, all tangible thoughts were banished and imagination took over.

He swore he could practically feel their touch, he swore he could feel their lips upon his own…it all felt so real. The fantasy was intense—the most intense he'd had for anyone. But he decided early on in his dreaming that it was not lust—he genuinely cared about these guys. He loved watching the look in their eyes as they looked at one another. That gaze was full of pure love, and Francis would have given anything to feel that in return for once. Just once, he wished he could be treated…well, he was just sick and tired of being treated like a whore. Maybe if these guys gave him a chance, he'd finally know what it meant to 'make love', and not just mindlessly fuck each other's brain's out.

His eyes opened slowly and he took in his surroundings. He was out of the hospital; thank god, and quietly resting in his own room. No sooner had he opened his eyes than his door opened. Gear stood there, standing still for a moment or so, just looking him. With a deep breath, the super genius walked in and closed the door behind him. He sat on the edge of Francis' bed, resting his elbows on his knees, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath.

"So…you know?"

It took Francis a minute for the meaning to register. He nodded dumbly. "Yeah, I know…Rich."

Richie groaned and hung his head. "Was it really that obvious?"

Francis shook his head earnestly. "No—you're good at hiding it. To be honest, when I first got here all I could think about was my freedom, and maybe slandering you two. But that didn't last."

"Obviously," he answered with a snort.

"You know, you can take the helmet off—it's not of any use now."

_He had a point…_Richie took off the Gear helmet and ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. "So…any guesses as to who Static really is?"

"I'm not going to like it, am I?"

Richie looked up at him, an incredulous look in his eyes. "You have no idea who Static is?"

Francis shrugged. "And I've fought him longer—you'd think it'd pop right out at me. Sooo…" he trailed off. He pointed at the outfit and armor. "Going on patrol?"

"I got a lead on the Destroyer, and I'm taking it. We have two suspects now."

The redhead straightened up, fully alert. "Who?"

"A guy named Miles Fisher and your old buddy, Ebon."

"I thought he was dead?"

"Well, his body isn't in the coffin, so my guess is he's still alive and kicking."

Francis was visibly digesting this information. Resolutely, he threw aside the covers and tried climbing out of bed. Richie rushed to assist him, and though normally the redhead would have pushed him away, he fell into the other man's arms willingly.

"I can walk—really."

"Sure…right…"

They shared a smile, and Francis sat on the bed next to the blond. He leaned his head against his shoulder and asked, "If you're bringing in the killer, you mind if I tag along?"

"Tag along?" Richie asked. "If I'm not mistaken, you'll more than likely want to take part…"

"Only if he hurts you," Francis said seriously. "If he so much as gives you a papercut, I'm gonna fry him so bad…"

"I don't need you to elaborate." Richie leaned his head against his. "But just the same, thanks…"

"No big," he disengaged himself and stretched. "Is Static coming too?"

Richie shook his head. "He said he wasn't feeling well."

He shrugged, got up and walked over to the closet. "Well, I guess even heroes are still human…sorta." He chose to wear a long sleeve black shirt and olive green army pants, combined with his own pair of boots. Running a hand through his longish hair, he frowned at his reflection. "I'd always hated these natural highlights…"

"_That_ is _natural_?" Richie asked disbelievingly. "No way."

Francis shrugged. "They say I have my mother's hair. She was Irish Catholic, so she had the red hair…"

"And the fighting spirit. Huh, so I guess we can't blame you for your violent side—its all about genetics, isn't it?"

"Yup," he said confidently. He even joked in an Irish accent as he flexed an arm muscle. "I can lick any sonuvabitch in the joint…"

"That's great and everything, but do you think you'll be okay?" the blond asked, standing and walking over to stand behind the taller redhead. Francis watched him in the mirror and he nodded.

"I just need to let loose a little—I should be fine. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Richie wasn't rightly sure, to be honest. He had fixed the meta-human with an almost pleading stare, sad and forlorn, questioning. "How do you really feel? Static and I, are we nothing more than just a conquest for you?"

"At first, you were," he admitted with a dejected sigh. "But as time went on, I… ah, dammit, I can't say it."

"No, go on."

"I, see…" he trailed off, and turned to face the blond, staring him deep in the eyes. "I realized I liked you—both of you. You were giving me a chance that no one else would. A little later, I realized even more that I liked you both more than I thought I did."

He was waiting to hear it. "Are you saying…"

"Yes." With one step, Francis closed the space between them, captured Richie's chin with one hand holding it firm, then kissed him softly, tenderly. It was sweet and chaste, two words he normally wouldn't have associated with the meta-human. But here he was, in the flesh, kissing him sweetly. Richie could tell Francis wanted to take the kiss a step farther, but seemed hesitant. Richie fixed that problem very quickly.

He wrapped his arms around the other man and crushed his lips on his. Francis drew back a little from the shock, but opened his mouth willingly when Richie's tongue probed at the entrance. He welcomed that skilled tongue with a moan and he wound his own strong arms around the slightly shorter man. His mind was practically screaming _'Static learned it from Gear! Static learned it from GEAR!'_ but at the present time, he didn't rightly care. The kiss was more mind-blowing than the one from Static—and that was saying something.

Richie was the one to pull away, but Francis still held tight to him, resting his head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. "Where the hell did you learn that?"

Richie grinned. "Would you believe its all instinct?"

"Instinct my ass…" he scoffed. "Speaking of which…" his hands started to move down his back to cup Richie's backside. He pushed away, a flush on his cheeks. "N-none of that right now—taking it to quickly…"

"Wait, you mean…" Francis had a hopeful look. "You mean, you're willing to…to see this through?"

"If you're up to it, and Static certainly seems up to it—then why not?" Richie pecked him on the lips one last time and placed the helmet back on his head. Francis reached out his hand once more in an effort to grab a feel, only to have that hand swatted away by a very annoyed-looking Backpack. The android perched itself on its master's back and Gear sent Francis a sly look.

"You're such a pimp, you know that?"

"Damn straight," he answered as they walked out the door. And when Gear was least expecting it, Francis managed to slap his ass just once then take off running. Gear promptly followed, chasing after the laughing pyro as fast as he could.

And all the while, Virgil had witnessed the whole thing.

* * *

A/N: not as long as the previous chappie, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. Spring Break rocks! WOOHOO! Remember to read and review! 


	8. Chapter 8: Conquest

Chapter 8: Conquest

A/N: guess who's back…back again…Luna's back…tell a friend…

Yes, she lives!...Barely….I hate rainy days—too damn depressing. Anywho, I've got at least two or three more chapters of this bad boy (no reference to Hotness :3), so bear with me here. I even thought of writing a sequel for this, if I ever get around to it…but I'm done my rambling, so on with the show!

Disclaimer: honestly, if I owned this, Richie would be mine. But that's not happening. I claim to own nothing but the plot and the characters Pixie, Serendipity and Cold Case. So please don't sue—I'm a college student…I'm po'.

Warnings: eh, a little swearing.

* * *

_Dakota, Hawkins Residence, 7:30 pm._

Robert Hawkins was used to not having too many people over for dinner on weekday nights. Occasionally, he'd see Trina once her shift was over, and Adam and Sharon always visited on weekends. Adam had opened up his own record company downtown and Sharon worked as a social worker in the same district as the Freeman Community Center. Though lately, Sharon had been busier than usual…

Imagine the supreme joy he felt when he received the call three months ago from an excited Sharon, proclaiming that she was already a month pregnant. A grandchild! He smiled fondly as he sat in his living room and thought about it. He wondered whether or not it would be a boy or a girl, but either way as long as the baby was happy and healthy, gender didn't matter. He surmised that a boy would look just like his father Adam, and a girl would look just like Sharon.

Robert was proud of the turn-around Adam had made. He had miraculously overcome his dyslexia and started his own business, which by now was healthy competition for Arista and Virgin records; and recently he had signed a couple new rappers that were tearing up the charts. Adam had become family even before he had proposed to Sharon after four years of dating. He and Virgil had gotten along famously after a rocky start. Now the two of them were like brothers.

_Speaking of which…I haven't heard from Virgil in a while_, he thought. He heard a knock at his door and he answered, expecting to see Trina but instead found his one and only son standing on his doorstep.

"Virgil!" he exclaimed happily. "I was just thinking about you. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, you don't mind?" he asked his father. Robert gave him a look which Virgil took to mean that the question was superfluous. "Of course you can stay," Robert said as he closed the door behind them. "I haven't heard from you in a while."

"I've been really busy with the League," his son said, sitting at the kitchen table. He draped his arm over his chair as was his habit and he sat back. But Robert saw that there was something bothering him. Call it parents' intuition, but he knew something was amiss.

"I'm having pasta," he said. "Marinara sauce alright?"

"That's awesome—thanks, Pops."

They settled down to dinner in silence. For Robert, it was too silent. Normally, his son was chatty, always talking to him about recent adventures, monsters he had to fight, robots and mad scientists, those stories never got old—though a few of them made him squirm with discomfort at the thought of his son getting so close to death. But he didn't want to think about that right now.

"So, how's Richie?" he tried to start a conversation. He was determined to figure out what was bothering him before the night was through.

"Good, he just finished updating Backpack—works much faster than before."

"Is that possible?"

Virgil shrugged. "Beats me—he's the genius; he's Sherlock, I'm just Watson."

"You know that's not true."

"Yeah, I'm pretty good at science—though being a lawyer pays better, I think."

Robert pointed his fork at him. "And I know I raised you well enough to know that you're no crook lawyer."

"Absolutely—I'd never let you down like that." In college, Virgil had gone for a degree in criminal law, a minor in political science. With that new-found knowledge he had worked at a firm for a few years, then split to start his own private law firm—though most of his time was spent out of the office nowadays. His official title was a 'Human Rights Attorney'. He had a hard time keeping his secretary from knowing the real reason for his many 'business trips'.

"I know, son, I know; and I know I've said this before," he reached out and took his son's hand in his own, "I'm proud of you. I'm very proud of everything you've accomplished."

Virgil smiled genuinely. "Thanks, dad—you know, you say it all the time, and it never gets old."

"Speaking of old…" he gave his son 'the look'. "Any new stories that are guaranteed to give me more gray hairs?"

Virgil laughed—the first time in a while. "None yet. I've been put on the case of the Dakota Destroyer…"

"Good Lord…" Robert gasped. He didn't like this at all.

"Tell me about it—this guy's harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa." Robert smiled and chuckled. Leave it to Virgil to come up with a crack like that. "But I think we're getting close."

"Good—I don't want to think about what would happen if he was allowed to keep doing what he's doing."

"Pops, believe me, we are doing all we can. We have a positive ID; all I need to do is find him and bring him in myself."

Robert shuddered at the notion. Even though his son was a man now, he couldn't help but feel overprotective. Not every father could boast that their child was a superhero. But the idea of Virgil having to handle such a dangerous criminal was…especially unsettling.

"What's on your mind, Virgil?" he finally got to the point. Tired as he was, he was in no mood to beat around the bush tonight.

Virgil took a deep breath before beginning. Robert mentally braced himself. _Get ready for the storm…_

"In order to find the Destroyer, we needed to get Hotstreak to help. Problem is, Hotstreak has always had a crush on _me_, Virgil, but now he's starting to like Static, and now he's getting together with Richie-slash-Gear, and both of them went out to get the killer tonight, so I consider that a date, wouldn't you? But when I went out last night to answer a call, I ran into Ebon…er, Ivan, Adam's older brother. He faked his own death to get out of jail, and now he's living in the old subway station where there are lots of younger bang babies—a new generation—and I've been sworn never to tell anyone about where they are because if the authorities knew about it, they'd incarcerate everyone and generally just fuck the whole thing up. And through all this, I know _I'm_ seriously fucked because I love Richie, but now I love Hotstreak as well."

He watched his father's reaction warily. Robert just blinked a few times, surprised that his son was able to say all that in one breath, but also from the obvious mental and emotional overload. _No wonder he looks so worn out…_

"And…" he ventured carefully. He stopped himself and shook his head. "Alright, let's try this one thing at a time. First of all, Richie and Hotstreak…"

"His real name is Francis—Francis Stone."

"Stone? Francis _Jacob_ Stone, by any chance?"

Virgil gave his father a surprised look. He himself had carefully looked over Francis' records, and had known the redhead's middle name for quite some time. "How did you…?"

"That's not important right now," he waved it off. _Better save that little piece of information for later._ "So you love Richie, but you also love Francis…"

"And they already love each other. I overheard Richie telling him that if he were willing, he could enter our relationship—you know, instead of two, three. Oh, and Francis knows Gear's secret identity."

"Does he know yours?" he asked, worried. He relaxed when Virgil shook his head. "Not yet, I don't think. So, you get the basic gist of my first problem?"

"Unfortunately. So…you love both of them, and it seems that they already love each other, and they both love you—so what's holding you back?"

"I dunno—I guess what other people would think…"

"Are you afraid of what _I_ would think?"

"Slightly—I mean, you were the first one I came to when I said me and Rich…" he coughed in his hand awkwardly. "But yeah—look, dad, I know it can't be easy knowing your one and only son is gay, and I thought that…telling you I was involved with more than one person…"

"As long as Richie is alright with it—and Francis for that matter—I see no reason for you to not try it. Do you trust him?"

"He trusts me—with his life. I learned that the hard way—long story."

"The night is still young," he pointed out. Virgil nodded in assent. "True, but…I need advice about the Ebon thing…"

"Ah yes, do tell." He sat patiently as his son explained the situation in finer detail, including the discovery of Lorelei's body and poor Pixie's reaction. When he finished, Robert just shook his head sadly. "I almost feel sorry for him—that's too much pressure for one man. And as for…Pixie, was it? A real shame."

"So what should I do?"

"If I'm right, then everything will work out on its own. You did the right thing by telling me…"

"And you won't tell anyone?"

"Just let the Kids know that they have a safe place to go to."

"Here?" he asked skeptically. "_This_ house?"

"It was getting too quiet anyway," he grinned. "Next time you see them, tell them there is a safe house for them. As for Serendipity, I think she gave you significant advice."

"Yeah, she's…I don't know how to explain her. She's…"

"A seer and healer—I for one think it's good that Ivan fell in with her. From what you've already told me, I think he's already turned around thanks to her. She seems like an angel."

_You have no idea_, Virgil thought. Robert gathered their dishes and placed them in the sink. Virgil stood, "I'll do dishes tonight."

"You sure?"

"You cooked; I think it's only fair."

"Alright, then, are you up for coffee?"

Virgil nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely—I have a feeling that I'll need it. So how's Trina?" he asked as he rolled up his sleeves and turned on the faucet. Robert looked over his shoulder from the coffee maker across the room. As far as he knew, Trina was still in the dark as to Virgil's other life. "She's doing well—she was asking about you, too."

"What'd you tell her?"

"I just told her that you were in Metropolis for a conference. She bought it."

"That's good," he said, focusing on the dishes. Robert watched him for a moment. Virgil was never so focused on chores…

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in question. Virgil nodded without looking at him. "I'll be fine now. Thanks for talking to me—it helps to have someone else to go to—you know, someone who _gets_ me."

"You have Richie, Batman, and the Green Lantern," Robert pointed out. "But…I suppose no one knows you like your old man, eh?"

"Exactly! Speaking of old men," he turned around and sported an energized grin, "I heard that I'm going to be an uncle soon?"

"You heard right—Adam and Sharon are so excited."

"Have they settled on any names yet?"

"They were thinking of James Elijah for a boy, and maybe Lillian Rose if it's a girl."

"I bet Sharon's looking forward to being a mom," he said, leaning back against the counter. "I guess it's a shame that I might never know what it's like to be a father…"

"It'll happen—you could always adopt. I know plenty of kids looking for a good home…"

They heard a loud beeping noise. Virgil smiled sheepishly and took the shock box out of his pocket. "Richie updated these too—now they've got text messaging."

"Is there anything he _can't_ do?"

Virgil read the message and his expression went from ghostly pale but hardened into a grimace of hate. Robert was shocked by his son's reaction, and as Virgil shoved the shock box back into his pocket, he said distractedly, "I'm going to have to change here—Gear needs me."

"What happened?" his father asked anxiously. After all, Richie _was_ family… Virgil paused as he climbed the stairs and said, though he dreaded saying the words: "He and Francis were captured by The Destroyer."

* * *

_Abandoned Subway Station, 8:05 pm_

Ivan was more than surprised to be awakened from an uneasy sleep by Akira. The young Asian teen rushed into Ivan's quarters and shook the man awake. "Ivan! Static's here! He says he needs you!"

"Tell him I'll be right out." Ivan stared at his reflection in a piece of broken mirror just off to his left. His bed was little more than an old futon and a variety of blankets. He watched the young teen go and his thoughts drifted back to the past.

In a way, Akira Kurama reminded him so much of Hotstreak it wasn't even funny. Both were impulsive, prone to violence, had less-than-perfect upbringings, but that was where the similarities stopped. Akira's abilities were the manipulation and creation of ice and water. Around here, they called him 'Cold Case'.

Christina "Pixie" Baker's powers had made themselves known as soon as her fairy-like wings appeared. Her parents, ultra-conservative to the point of being fascist, were horrified that their youngest had become a 'freak', and they threw her out of the house. They might have kept her if she had sprouted angel wings instead, but that was different story. On the streets, she ran into trouble, but thankfully also ran into Serendipity, who brought her into her own home.

Serendipity had always had her ability of precognition—Ivan was used to it by now. He knew she had a habit of using her powers to track other bang babies and bring them to the relative safety of the Underground. So far, they had amassed over fifty of what they called the Neo-Breed—mostly misguided teens and a few preteens and children that had been affected over time.

What secrets Ivan was hiding were only known by Serendipity and himself. As he shrugged on his jacket—it was cold down there after all—he reflected back on how his relationship with the woman had started. He had been in prison, and he had started to have dreams involving a strange fortune-teller. He later found out that he had a telepathic link to her. _How_ he did, he didn't know. But he became more perceptive as time went on. He swore he could even feel vibes, and sense auras—all thanks to Natasha.

He also knew he had some sort of connection to Hotstreak, and whether or not Red actually knew about it was anyone's guess. Ivan tried not to think too much about it.

He pushed away the moth-eaten curtain that served as his room divider and found Static standing next to Cold Case and Pixie. As soon as he saw him, the hero bounded forward, "Ivan I need your help."

"Help in what?"

"Gear and Hotstreak went ahead after Miles—and they got captured."

"No doubt thanks to Hotstreak," he snorted. "Always knew Red wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"It's not like that anymore!" Static said earnestly. "He's a thinker now—a schemer. He's not one to make idle mistakes anymore." _I hope_, he added silently. Ivan gave him a skeptical look.

"If you say so, Hero. But I don't see how I can help."

"I'm going after Fisher—and I might need back-up. Besides," he got in close and whispered, "Batman knows that you're not in your grave—he knows you're still alive. And he's close to finding you and the Kids."

Ivan looked panicked and his face had paled. "W-well what do you expect me to do?"

Static handed him a piece of paper. "That's the address of a safe-house that the Kids can go to. I know the guy who lives there—he'll guard the secret with his life."

Ivan looked over the address. "Isn't this the Hawkins residence?"

"Yeah—hurry, get everyone there as fast as you can. Mr. Hawkins has plenty of room."

"You…" Ivan was taken aback. "You'd do this for us?"

"I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. You don't have much time. Listen, if you help me bring this guy in, it'll clear your name and you might even be exonerated."

The look of gratification on Ivan's face was answer enough for the hero. Ivan turned to Cold Case and Pixie. "You kids coming too?"

"Yes," Pixie said determinedly. "I'm not missing this."

"I'm coming too," Cold Case said. "I might be able to help."

"And I already have an idea of where he is," Ivan said. "Tell Serendipity what's going on, I'll be ready to go in a minute." With that, Ivan retreated back to his mini-lair, and Static heard him rummaging around. _I wonder what he's digging for?_

When Ivan emerged, he handed Static something wrapped in a dirty rag. "Hold on to that until we get there. I got transportation; you just need to trust me."

"No problem." Static felt the object in his hand and he felt a chill pass over him, much like the night at the docks so many years ago… He unwrapped the object and he felt his heart jump into his throat. It was a gun—and a silencer. Ivan was obviously hell-bent on taking someone out tonight.

Pixie gasped and she set her little jaw. Placing her tiny doll-like hands over the weapon, a strange pinkish light shone from her palms. Her hands clenched into fists and the gun was instantly destroyed, crushed, falling into tiny bits, the bullets hitting the floor harmlessly. Cold Case drew a sharp breath, and before he could reprimand her for making such a careless move, she fixed him a cold look—colder than liquid nitrogen.

"_I_ want to be the one to take out that son of a bitch—no one else will have the privilege. Got it?" she snapped at him in an uncharacteristic frigid tone.

Static was shocked by the force behind her words. She looked so small, but there was a lot of power in this girl's hands. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes holding nothing but reverence. "I know your policy on guns. And I totally agree. We won't need them anyway." She stepped back and held her arms out and closed her eyes. Her entire body was enveloped with the rosy light, and her clothes changed from the t-shirt and jeans to a rose-colored long-sleeve shirt and forest green skirt and green medieval-like boots. Now she looked like the picture of a pixie.

Cold Case showed off his power by forming ice on his fingertips. "No matter what, we're with you on this, Static," he said, his tone as coldly determined as Pixie's had been. Static only nodded in assent and focused his gaze on the subway car where Serendipity was standing in the window. Her hand was upon the glass and she looked forlorn. He heard her voice in his head: _Day's darkest hour is just before the dawn…_

He thought about for a minute then it occurred to him—_Day's Darkest Hour_!

* * *

_Abandoned Warehouse #8, City Docks, 10:30 pm_

The quartet stood outside the tall chain-link fence surrounding the abandoned property. The four of them stood tall, determined. Static, however,was internally struggling—this was his fault. If he hadn't made such a mess of things, this would never have happened. If he had been honest with Richie and Francis from the get-go, they might not have gone without him.

But that was in the past. What was done was done, and he couldn't change it. If only Time Zone hadn't gone back to completely erase herself from the big bang—if she hadn't stopped herself from going, her power would have been a great use right about now.

Ivan led them to a gate, heavily padlocked. He sent a glance to Cold Case, and the teen stepped forward, reaching his hand out and taking the large lock in his hand. The Asian teen, like Pixie, had a costume of his own—light blue faded jeans, and a white hooded jacket. Not a first choice in colors that Static would have chosen for sneaking around at night, but it served its purpose. The lock turned to crystallized ice in seconds, and the chain connected to it followed soon after. Cold Case stepped back, and let Pixie in closer. The familiar pink light shone in her hands, and in an instant, the lock and chain shattered, hitting the pavement with a soft tinkling like tiny bells.

Ivan pushed the gate open, carrying a crowbar over his shoulder. He swaggered around, and caught sight of the multiple streetlights and lamps illuminating the docks around them. Wordlessly, he motioned his intentions to Static who happily complied. The hero raised his hand towards the closest lamp and waited.

Electricity started flowing into his body as he sucked the power from the lamps. The result was a blackout all down the block. Cold Case snorted and whispered, "The locals won't be too happy about that."

"They'll live," Pixie said.

"No they won't," he countered, indicating the blackout, "'_The Daily Show_' is on tonight—there'll be hell to pay if they miss it."

Ivan chuckled and Static smiled slightly. This kid was starting to sound like him a little bit. _Scary thought…_

They darted across the small darkened parking lot to the warehouse and paused outside the small side-door. This time, the door was not locked. It was even open a crack. Static and Ivan shared a look in the darkness. This didn't bode well. Apparently the two teens silently agreed with them.

Pixie leaned her head back and stared up at the darkened windowsthree stories above her. "I'm gonna see if there's anyone in there."

"No, wait…" Ivan tried stopping her. She flitted away on her fairy wings straight into the air and paused just below the windows. Sending a careful look back down below her, she found the three males watching her, apprehension evident on their faces.

The short blonde chanced a quick peek over the ledge into the warehouse, then flew down a couple feet out of sight of the windows. Mustering her courage, she got a little bolder and allowed herself a full look inside. Once she was satisfied, she flew back down to meet them.

"I thought I saw someone in there. I don't know if they saw me."

"You think it was Fisher?" Cold Case asked. Pixie only shrugged. "I didn't get a good enough look."

"I don't like this," Ivan admitted, his instincts kicking in. He had lived on the streets long enough to know when something smelled fishy. "An empty warehouse, looks like no one's home, the door's unlocked and open just so anyone can walk right through…it's a trap—has to be."

Static stepped forward. "Let me go in first."

Ivan just gave him a strange look. It seemed to say 'have you lost your mind?' Static only reasoned, "Look, I've got better reflexes than the rest of you. When I'm threatened, what do you think is my first response?"

"Shock the hell outta the attacker," Cold Case answered with a wicked grin. "I'm all for it."

"And besides," Pixie added. "Maybe it'll be Miles—if he gets shocked, we can take him into custody…"

"I still say it's risky," Ivan argued, rubbing the back of his neck in anxiety.

"So is standing out here all night—Ivan, we don't have much of a choice here."

"I beg to differ," a sinister voice said. Before he could react, Static felt something collide with the back of his head. As he blacked out, he heard Pixie's muffled scream and Ivan calling out for him. Then all went black.

* * *

A/N: Gah, I know, horrible place to leave off. I honestly thought I'd be more inspired to write during spring break, but it's been cloudy, cold and rainy for the past four days, and I haven't felt like doing much of anything other than sleeping. I can't wait till summer! I'll try and get chapter 9 out as soon as possible (I wouldn't hold my breath though) Have a Happy Easter everybody! 


	9. Chapter 9: From Hell

Chapter 9: From Hell

**A/N:** (sobs uncontrollably) I'm **sooooorrrreeeeee!** Please kind, beautiful peoples, **don't kill me!** The only reason I left off _there_ was because I've been smashed over the head with a 2-ton hunk of writer's block.Thankfully, my muse came around and slapped me in the face with a big fat fish and told me to get my ass in gear and finish the two fics I'm working on simultaneously. Yes, TWO. The sequel to this bad boy **not included**…_yet_.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it—Milestone and DC Comics owns Static Shock and any superheroes of the DC universe. This includes: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, GL, Flash, Supergirl, and any others I can't remember right now.

**Warnings**: Major violence and angst, and more from our favorite serial killer. Good times, good times…

**Rating**: based on the new rating system set down by rated **M**, or **R**, for those of you unsure about the new system. Yes, there is much violence, lotsa swearing, and sexual situations in the next two chapters. Fun, fun, fun…

* * *

_Watchtower, docking station, the Javelin, 2:04 pm_

"What do you think?" Gear asked proudly. Francis' eyes widened appreciatively at the unveiled mode of transport before him. The redhead whistled approvingly and stepped forward, running his hands across the polished metal lightly, almost a caress.

His face was reflected in the red-painted metal of the motorcycle Gear had unveiled to him. It was sleek, painted a dark red and black, a matching helmet sitting on the seat. Francis rambled on in his excitement.

"An '05 Suzuki? Wow, its…it looks…hey!" he ran his hands over it, muttering as he went, "1299cc Displacement, 4-stroke, four-cylinder, liquid-cooled, 16-valve… 6-speed transmission…" his hands moved down to the tires. He crouched down and inspected the brakes.

"Dual hydraulic disc in front, single in the back, front inverted telescopic, coil spring suspension, back suspension is link typed…Woohoo!" he whooped. How long had it been since he had ranted about things like this? Most of the guys in the clink talked about cars and their women—Hotstreak was always telling them about different motorcycles. His soft spot were the Suzuki's. Hondas were fine, and Yamaha was okay, but Hotstreak remembered feeling more of a rush when perched atop a machine like this one. Hell, he'd even broken into a when he was 17 to get one just like this one.

"This is in great shape! Where the hell did you get this? They stopped making these years ago!"

Gear leaned against the _Javelin_, the spacecraft standing just next to the redhead's new ride. Smiling triumphantly, he said, "It was actually a commission for Nightwing—only he wanted it in black and blue. But, since his own bike it still running smoothly, I figured you'd give it a test run—that way you can tell him yourself how nice it is."

"This thing got any special features?"

"Pfft…plenty." He circled around the bike, counting off the newest features on his fingers. "I added two more cylinders for extra power, fixed the suspension for an easier ride, turbo speed to get around the slow-pokes on the highway. And…" he pointed out the odd attachments on the wheel axles. "These are jet-fuel propelled engines, much like what you'd see on a harrier jet."

Hotstreak looked up at him sharply, his jaw dropping, "This thing can fly?"

"Theoretically—I wouldn't try it out just yet, I'm still working out the kinks so it'll be more aerodynamic. So…think Nightwing will be pleased?"

"I'll say. He's missing out. And he wanted one _just_ like this?"

"Yup, sleek and shiny. So," Gear handed him the helmet perched on the bike. He also held out a package wrapped in brown paper. "Think you can honor this genius with a test run of his innovation?"

Francis took the parcel from him and tore away at the paper, his grin widening. He unfolded the black and red racing jacket and held it up in front of him. He immediately put it on, and marveled at how the fabric seemed to hug all the right places, and leave slack in places where it counted. And, he also figured, it was heat-retardant. He thought ecstatically_, Perfect fit! How'd he know?_

Something smaller had fallen to the floor. He bent to pick it up and stopped. Taking the objects into his hand, he brushed his fingers over the leather of it. The biking gloves were just what he needed.

He threw another admiring glance up at Gear and said, barely able to hold in his delight, "Thanks. I'm…"

"Speechless?" Gear offered. Francis only nodded. The redhead cocked his head in the Javelin's direction. "We taking that down to Earth?"

Gear nodded. "GL's flying. Once we touch down, we get off and he flies away—there's a bloody rebellion going on in one of the old Soviet-block countries. He, Green Arrow and Flash are going there while we're in Dakota."

"Think we'll find this guy tonight?" he asked, taking the red helmet and tucking it under his arm. Gear sent his gaze out the large windows, his eyes stuck on the breath-taking image of the earth from space. Just looking at it was enough to make him feel at peace. Most of the time, he figured that other races unfamiliar with Earth would take one look at the planet from afar and think 'What a beautiful place—there can't possibly be anything there to mar that beauty'. Unfortunately, they were never right.

Thus resolved, Gear turned towards the Javelin's open bay door. Taking Francis by the arm, he instructed, "Tonight we're going to use our aliases. I'll still be Gear, but you'll go by F-Stop."

"Better make it Hotstreak—no confusion, that way. Hey there," he greeted Green Lantern. The taller man only glared back, in retaliation to the pyro's informal greeting. Francis wondered briefly if Green Lantern had taken lessons from Batman—both of them were extremely anti-social, to the point that it made 'anti-social' look like a mild case of 'introverted'. Green Arrow scared him, a _little_ bit—he wasn't going to deny that. Flash was the only superhero so far that seemed totally okay with him being up there. The others tended to avoid him. Not that Francis was complaining…there were plenty of characters he didn't want to meet anyway, strictly for the sole reason that they would kick his ass before he could say a word.

He and Gear followed the senior members of the League onto the ship. Fra…_Hotstreak, you're Hotstreak tonight_, he told himself. He felt an odd…feeling. Okay, he was never good with words, no matter how much he picked up, that would never change. But the point was…he had an odd premonition. Something was telling him that something just wasn't right…

* * *

_Dakota, 'Downtown' 10:35 pm_

Gear received a beep on his communicator. For tonight's purposes, he and Hotstreak had borrowed headphones for easy communication. Currently, the redhead was following the super genius on the new motorcycle, zooming down the empty streets like a maverick. Gear answered the transmission from Hotstreak, "Yes?"

"_You sure we got the information right? I haven't seen anything from the ground, and this doesn't seem like the place at all."_

"I know what you mean," he said, pausing in midair. Hotstreak stopped the bike below him. Without taking off the helmet, the redhead glanced around the dark streets. They were in the 'Downtown'—Dakota's worst area. It was likened to slums, but it was really more like a ghost town. No one wanted to live here—it was even said the entire neighborhood was haunted. None of the gangs went anywhere near it, even the non-superstitious ones.

"Fr—Hotstreak? You don't think we've been duped, do you?"

"_Dunno—but something just ain't right about this. I've got a bad feeling that something's gone down while we've been on this wild-goose chase. Have you checked in with Static yet?"_

"He won't answer his communicator. I'm getting worried."

"_Maybe he's sleeping?"_ the redhead offered.

"He'd still answer it, regardless."

"_Doesn't he have a tracer on him? Wouldn't that work?"_

"Negative—he must have taken it off because I can't get his signal anywhere on my GPS. Either he's still in the Watchtower—highly unlikely, knowing him—or he decided he needed a night off…"

"_And went patrolling on his own,"_ Hotstreak finished. He tugged at the collar of the racing jacket provided to him, feeling a little hot under the collar, which was odd, considering it was a rather chilly night.

"You alright?" Gear asked, noticing his discomfort.

"_I need to let loose some power. There any targets 'round here that no one'll miss?"_

"So long as you don't destroy a house, I think you're good."

Hotstreak took off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, taking off the gloves as well. He propped up the bike and dismounted, walking out into the center of the street. Loose papers flew past him in the wind, and he skirted around broken bottles, standing on the faded double yellow lines. Holding his hands out in front of him, he made two fists and focused his power towards his hands.

They smoldered, then burst into flame. He felt the heat leaving his body, pooling into his hands. Just when they had reached the proper heat, he threw the fireballs into the sky. They exploded into tiny puffs of smoke as Gear landed a few feet away. He gave the pyro a wide arch and watched in fascination. He had never really watched the fiery bang-baby in action—he was always too busy dodging his attacks to really notice just how…enchanting it looked.

The fire had the same effect as a bug-zapper—the intoxicatingly beautiful light and appearance, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He now understood why Static had looked so drawn in the night Francis was admitted to the hospital. _You really _can't_ take your eyes off him_, he thought.

Hotstreak threw fire around haphazardly, the flames scorching the already abused pavement. Finally, he allowed himself to be fully enveloped in flames, the fire licking at his body. He threw his head back and relished in the welcome heat, sighing happily, smiling as he felt the rapture of it. He was certain was no drug on earth that could match a high like this.

Finally, the flames dissipated and Gear took a few steps forward. "Feel better?"

Hotstreak inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth in a meditative-like breath. "Much better—I haven't really let loose since I was 18. That felt great."

"Looks kinda scary."

"It is, the first couple of times. But you get used to it," he admitted. He clapped a hand on Gear's shoulder and turned him back around to the bike. "Now, what are we going to do about our missing friend?"

Gear stiffened, and Hotstreak immediately felt bad. _Nice choice of words, hotshot, real suave_, he scolded himself. "Maybe we should call the Watchtower?" he suggested. "Someone might find him asleep, and tell him to get his ass in gear."

"Gotcha—I'll call Wonder Woman."

Hotstreak grinned wickedly. He almost wished he could be there to see him get whipped by the Amazon. _God damn, that would've been hot_, he thought with a queer smile. He heard the communicator go off, and he placed the bike helmet over his head and turned off his microphone as Gear answered the incoming message. Both of them were able to hear the transmission.

"_Gear, its Superman."_

"Hey, what up?" he asked cheerfully enough, though there was still the hint of worry behind his voice.

"_I've got bad news."_

Hotstreak mouthed a few choice words and all the blood left Gear's face. As he listened to the rest of the Man of Steel's message, he felt he was going to be sick. Once he shut off the transmission, Hotstreak took off the helmet again and stared him in straight in the eyes. "What are we going to do?" he asked, not bothering to mask the worry in his own voice. He in truth felt that his heart had dropped into his stomach.

Gear shook his head. "We have to find him first, but how we're going to do that when we can't even track him…"

"I know where he is."

Gear looked up suddenly and stared at the redhead. Hotstreak's green eyes had a far-off look to them, as if his mind were elsewhere. He did, however, look oddly focused. He snapped out of it and mounted his bike. "Get on," he told him. "We'll get there faster this way. Hold on tight."

Gear followed the request, wrapping his arms protectively around the other man's waist. He leaned his head against the man's back, and felt a reassuring hand on his arm. Even though no words were uttered, Gear felt the hidden strength beneath those hands. He felt the determination in the meta-human's posture as they sped away.

Gear wasn't aware where they were going until he smelled the scent of gasoline and dead fish. _Never a nice combination._

The motorcycle came to a stop, and Hotstreak kicked the kick-stand down, turning off the powerful machine as he dismounted. Gear disengaged himself and followed the redhead towards a tall chain link fence. It was oddly dark out—all the streetlights and surrounding buildings were dark. Gear surmised a power outage. Backpack was even picking up energy readings; Static had been there, and not too long ago, either. Hotstreak faltered in his step and Gear noticed.

"What's wrong?"

"This…the Bang."

He understood right away—this was where the Big Bang originally took place. And maybe…Francis had bad memories of that? Well, not too many would be exactly thrilled with the idea of becoming a freak of nature in one night, but at the time, it didn't seem to matter much to F-Stop. Gear remembered not being happy when he found out about his powers: then again, he'd wanted something 'cooler' like super strength or laser vision. Nope, he had to settle with brains—not that he was complaining anymore.

Hotstreak crouched next to the open gate and looked at the shards of…was that ice?

"What's able to do that to this?" the redhead wondered. Gear got a scan of it, and as Backpack processed it, he drew in a short breath. "This was done by a human."

"Huh?"

"There's traces of human DNA—a human froze it, and another blasted the hell out of it."

"Question is, do we know anyone with that kind of power…?"

"Hang on," Gear silenced him. Hotstreak saw the information and figures flit across the blond man's visor like a computer screen. Gear's face was set, then sent him a look. "I'm getting similar readings of this kind of activity near the corner of Milestone and Cowan."

"Milestone Street and Cowan? Wasn't that near…?"

"The Meta-Breed's hide-out," Gear nodded. Hotstreak rubbed his chin as he remembered, "I was only down there a couple times, but I remember it well enough. You think there's more bang babies out there?"

"What I'm more worried about," Gear said, "is whether or not we can trust them. How do we know they're not responsible?"

"We just have to trust them…"

"What's with you?"

"Huh?"

"You've been cryptic like that all night. What's the deal? What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything," he said a little too quickly. Gear wasn't buying it. "What secret are you keeping from us? From me?"

It certainly looked like the redhead was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was visibly holding an internal debate of whether to come out with the truth or keep his mouth shut.

"Francis," Gear said, "when you signed up for this, we agreed that this was all about trust—how can I trust you if you're keeping something like this away from me and Static?"

"I…" he paused and took a deep breath, "I kinda—don't take this the wrong way, alright? I…have this…link, I guess you'd call it…between me and Ebon. I already knew he wasn't dead, but I didn't say anything because…well, we both have out reasons."

"Which are…?"

"I can't say—confidentiality. But, I can say this: he's changed. There must be someone close to him that caused him to change for the better. Dunno who, but I guess whoever she is, she's obviously got him whipped."

Gear smirked. He would have liked to see that—an Ebon who answered to someone _else_ for a change, and wouldn't try and usurp power. An Ebon content with being second-in-command—if that was possible.

"I think what it is," Hotstreak continued, trying his best to explain when he really didn't fully understand it himself. "When he and I fused together at the second Bang, you know, we were that big monster?"

Gear nodded in understanding.

"Yeah—I guess…I think we shared telepathic information with each other. When we separated—how we did, I don't think either of us knows—we still had that link. So while I was in prison, I could still catch snatches of what his life was like. I mean…its not words or thoughts…just, feelings. Like, he knows when I'm angry or tired or whatever. And I think this whole mental link also gives him a lot of headaches. Like he doesn't have enough reasons to hate me…"

Things were starting to become clearer. Gear went over the things that had been said over the past few days. _'Ebon's not your man'. 'Just a wild guess…'. 'It has everything to do with knowing when to keep your mouth shut.'_

"You realize what this means, right? Now that we know all this stuff?"

"Shh…hang on; Backpack's picking up something in the building. It's a low-definition heat source."

"Someone's got the heat on?"

Gear shook his head, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "That's the weird thing: the building's on electric heating, but all the electricity has been disengaged…" he trailed off and shared a significant glance with the pyro-kinetic. What better place to hide an electric bang-baby than in a place totally devoid of electricity?

* * *

_Dakota City Docks, Warehouse #8, 11:09 pm_

The first thing Static was aware of was the sensation of a jackhammer pounding away at his cranium. The back of his head hurt like hell, and his vision was still largely unfocused. _No_ _amount of aspirin is gonna help this_, he thought dismally. What he was next aware of he deemed more alarming: he was lying on his back, strapped to a table with thick leather bonds, held tight and secure. His powers were useless against them. As his vision slowly corrected itself to fit the dim lighting, he found even more alarming sights.

Ivan was handcuffed to a vertical metal beam, arms behind his back. The man was struggling frantically like a caged animal, all but foaming at the mouth. It seemed as though he were trying to get to something…

The Static's eyes rested on the two teens. Cold Case was still unconscious, lying on his side on the concrete floor, distressingly still. But Pixie stood…or rather hung…nearby, both her arms tied together to a chain hanging from the ceiling. She was visibly weak, her legs failing to give out from under her. Her face was turned down, studying the floor, her blue eyes holding a catatonic look.

Static was next aware of the movement off to his left side. Someone, impeccably dressed in beige slacks, white shirt and suspenders stepped forward out of the shadows cast by…were those candles?

Yes, the whole place was alight with candles—some scented, some unscented, in varying colors. Hot wax dripped down to the cool floor, steaming slightly upon impact. The warehouse reminded Static of a cathedral—high ceilings, lots of candles, deadly silence…he didn't like it one bit.

Nor did he like the idea that in the mysterious man's hands was a carving knife and a piece of wood. The man appeared to be sharpening it, whistling away contentedly, nonchalantly, as if it were normal for him to hold hostages. _Then again, it is normal for him, isn't it?_

"I'm glad to see you are awake," the man said, stepping into the warm light of the candles. He must have flipped on a switch, because a bright white light shone down in a wide circle around the captured hero. I know I'm usually in the spotlight, but this is ridiculous.

"I didn't want you to miss the good times…" the man continued, in a tone that belied the ferocity and overall dementia in him.

"What are you planning, Miles?"

The man stopped suddenly, turning rigid. He chuckled low in his throat. "Really, was I that obvious? Granted, I was hoping I'd be the next BTK killer and go for a good thirty years before anyone found out, but I suppose this works all the same."

"You're too messy," Static said, trying to keep his resolve. He wasn't afraid to admit he was scared. Terrified, even; he knew what he was dealing with…a madman. This man was insane; some would go so far as to say _evil_.

Well, maybe not true—many had said that Ebon was evil, but look at Ivan now. The only difference between the two men was that Ivan wasn't insane.

Miles Fisher stepped up to the gurney, looking Static right in the eye. The hero suppressed a shudder. Those eyes were horrifying—there was a look of madness in them that defied all description. Miles hadn't gone off the deep end—he was drowning in it.

The white man with sandy colored hair grinned. On a normal person, that grin would have appeared friendly. Combine that grin with the eyes of a psychopath, and it makes Hannibal Lector look like Mr. Rogers.

Fisher was downright scary.

The killer kept scraping away at the wood, forming a sharp point at one end. Wood shavings fell onto Static's chest, and though his heat beat like crazy, he was still intrigued. "What exactly is that for?"

"You'll see." Static didn't like that tone at all. Miles strode over to Ivan, who stopped tugging at his bonds long enough to send a defiant glare at the killer. Miles chuckled, "Still fighting even after you know you've lost? Impressive," he slapped the darker man sharply, the crack of the hand against Ivan's cheekbone echoing throughout the vast house. "Foolish, but impressive."

He raised the sharpened wood stake and positioned it over Ivan's wildly beating heart. "You know, Ebon, you remind me of a vampire, do you know that? Refusing the light of day, walking the streets at night, looking for people to prey off of…even rising from your own grave. So I wonder…" he said with a wicked grin. "If it would be fitting to kill you in the same way? How does that sound?"

Ivan responded by spitting in his face. He received another hard slap, yet still glared back, the gaze steady and defiant as ever. Miles tired of this quickly, setting his sights instead on the struggling girl not too far away.

"Christina, it's been so long," he said, opening his arms wide, expecting a hug. Pixie scooted as far away from him as her bonds would allow, sending him a glare of her own, though her eyes reflected the fear behind them. Static pushed up against his bonds, his natural protective instinct kicking in. Apparently Ivan was having similar issues.

"Don't you dare touch her, Fisher!" he screamed at him. Ivan was again, much like a tiger—piss him off enough, and you just might get mauled… Miles paid no attention, reaching his hand out of touch Pixie's cheek.

"You are so beautiful, Christina," he gasped. "So much like your sister…" his tone and mood took a dangerous tone. "I wonder…just how much you have in common with her? Would you break hearts as idly as she did? Well, dearest sister-in-law, would you? _ARGHHH!"_

Cold Case had just regained consciousness, and had bitten into Miles' ankle, drawing blood. The crimson life force stained the ankle of the beige slacks, and Miles, obviously offended, roughly kicked the boy in the stomach. Cold Case grunted and struggled to breath.

"STOP!" Pixie screamed. "DON'T DO THAT! STOP IT!" Miles rounded on her and struck her sharply, gaining a cry of shock from her. No one had _ever_ struck her before, and it was shock that silenced her rather than the pain.

Static knew without looking that Ivan was going crazy, succumbing to a maddening rage. _He really is protective of those kids_, Static thought. He tried using some of his powers, but was surprised to find the he couldn't even garner so much as a spark. _What the hell…?_

Then he saw them. On his wrists was a pair of identical bracelets… _Just like the ones we used on Hotstreak. How did he get his hands on these? As a matter of fact_, he thought, _why_ _did he even take us hostage? What does he have to gain?_

Miles was by his side again, grinning wolfishly. He took out a knife from a sheath at his belt, a cruelly curved, jagged knife. Static's heart jumped up to his throat. He knew what that knife was used for! The pale man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Static, Static, Static…you, sir, have been a very unfaithful lover." Ivan sent Static an odd look, questioning. Static refused to look at him, his dark eyes focused on the blade being held at his throat. Miles, relishing in the fear he was causing the hero, started reciting in a sing-song voice, "_For each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word, the coward does it with a kiss…_" he bent down and lightly kissed the hero's forehead. Straightening up, he positioned the knife directly over the hero's palpitating heart, then raised it high over his head to drive it into its intended target, poised and ready. "…_the brave man with a sword_."

With an agonized cry, Miles dropped the knife and it fell point first into the gurney…right next to Static's head. Miles' hand was severely burned, and an explosion of glass from the high windows above them raised the sudden awareness of what was going on.

Gear flew through the open window and threw a zap cap at the killer, the weapon working to full capacity. As Miles began to fall to the floor, he was caught by the lapels and faced a hand full of fire. When the sandy-haired man looked up even further, he could have sworn he was looking into the eyes of a demon. Though ordinarily, _this_ particular demon would have fried his sorry ass a long time ago.

Hotstreak's grimace of rage distorted his handsome features, wisps of longish red hair falling into his face as he gritted out, "Make one stupid move, I'll fry you so bad, you'll be begging for a quick death!"

"Amusing…quite amusing," Miles laughed. "To think you of all people have the right to talk to me that way? You're the one who caused all this to happen—and you know that, don't you?"

"I didn't have anything to do with this…" the redhead glared back. Gear landed just a few feet away and rushed over to aid Static. The bound hero shook his head and sent a silent message to Gear with his eyes. _Get Ivan and the kids out of here first—then go call for help. This guy's _nuts_! We need all the help we can get._

The look he sent the other hero must have registered, and Gear nodded once, running off to untie Cold Case and Pixie. The short blonde girl rubbed her sore wrists, but before she could rush over to lay out her own retribution on her brother-in-law, Gear and Cold Case held her back. As much as she struggled, she gave up after gear had transferred her to Cold Case's arms. The super genius rushed over to Ivan, taking out a long pick and picking the lock of the handcuffs in a nanosecond. The ex-bang baby rubbed his wrists, grabbed Pixie and Cold Case and ran for the exit, sending Static one last hopeful glance. The man stopped long enough to take something out of one of the many vest pockets. One fluid sweeping motion, quick as the blink of an eye, and the object was safely back in its place. "Take care of this guy," Ivan whispered, then ran, dragging the kids along with him.

Static, perplexed as to what had just happened, turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Hotstreak still had Miles in his clutches, the flames in his hands growing hotter as his temper shortened ever more.

Miles shrugged at the meta-human, nonchalant even though he was practically staring death in the face. "The others that were…expendable…certainly were not your fault. But the fact that your lover's life is in my hands is all your doing…"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his already short fuse dissipating rapidly, the flames in his hand leaping up a few feet. Miles only gave him a knowing look.

"Come now, Francis—did you really expect your flirting wouldn't have its repercussions? Playing with hearts like that is dangerous…"

It all happened too fast. Hotstreak screamed as a powerful volt of electricity ran through his body. The shock caused his grip to lessen, and the zap cap came undone. Miles stood erect, slipping a taser into his pocket. "…And I would know that personally."

Hotstreak fell back on his rump and scrambled backwards, missing the next of Miles' attacks. The older man had drawn out identical long knives and started slashing at the meta-human. The redhead yelled over to Static, "What the hell happened?"

"How should I know!" he yelled back, his head still throbbing painfully. "I only woke up just a few minutes ago!" He turned his head and saw to his immense relief that Gear had made short work of setting the other hostages free. He could hear a distant argument—no doubt between the genius and Ivan—about the next course of action. _Call for back-up_, he pleaded. _Just do it._

Hotstreak was still dodging Miles' attacks, but decided early on that he'd try to make sense of the situation.

"So you're Miles Fisher…The Dakota Destroyer…How's that working out for you?" A knife stabbed the wall next to his head. Ducking quickly, he avoided the next one that came at his head. "Mind me asking how you got a hold of those lead bracelets?"

"It's easy once you know the basics…but you would have known that already, wouldn't you, Francis?"

"How do you know me?" he asked, ducking behind a vertical beam. He paused to catch his breath and strained his ears to hear what the killer had to say.

"I know all there is to know about you…" he answered cryptically. He stalked his quarry like a lion, practically licking his chops at the thought of easy conquest and the end of the hunt. "I've known you since that first day at the ward…"

Suddenly it was like a light switch had flipped on in his brain. Hotstreak knew who this man was. "You're Dr. Fisher…" he gasped.

"Oh, very good," his silky voice sounded right next to his ear. Miles caught him around the throat from the back and held on firmly, displaying his new-found toys. The knife held at his neck glistened in the candlelight…Candlelight!

Hotstreak smirked and laughed. Miles was not amused. "May I ask what is so funny?"

"For some guy who claims to know me, you have _no clue_." Hotstreak held out his hand to the closest candle and waited. Concentrating, he felt the inviting warmth of the energy seeping into his body. One by one, the tiny flames scattered all over the warehouse went out. A deathly silence stole over the whole place.

Miles still had Hotstreak by the throat, but yelped in surprise when the fiery meta-human suddenly erupted into a bright flame, then receded the fire just as quickly. The bright light had blinded him, and in the darkness, Miles saw multi-colored spots as his eyes adjusted. In his shock, the killer had let go of his quarry, and now looked about frantically. The darkness was overwhelming and blinding in and of itself.

When miles felt the hand close around his neck from behind, the killer stiffened. He could feel the smirk on the other man's face. "Boo."

* * *

_Hawkins Residence, 11:15 pm_

Whoever said buying in bulk was cheaper must have never ordered fifteen pizzas at 10 o' clock at night to feed 50-odd teenage refugees. Robert hadn't seen so many teenagers in one tiny place before. Close to twenty five of them huddled in his living room, most on the floor, the younger ones sleeping on the large sofa. A few stood by the windows, looking out into the streets warily. Poor kids, Robert thought, they had to grow up too fast. He picked up the remains of the ten pizzas he had ordered for them, stooping to pick up paper plates and cups. As he bent down to get the pizza boxes, he found them levitating over his head.

Turning to look behind him, he saw a twelve-year-old girl with short black hair holding her right hand aloft, her eyes glowing a soft shade of lavender. The pizza boxes, paper plates and cups all levitated over to the trash bag at the girl's feet. Using the same telekinetic powers, the black trash bag tied itself up and was positioned next to the front door for the next garbage collection day.

The little girl smiled shyly then retreated into the kitchen. Robert, curious, followed her in, and found her at the table, holding onto Serendipity. Serendipity had helped herself to some tea, and sat at the table, her arms wrapped around the little girl lovingly. The blind seer smiled as Robert entered.

"These children are grateful—we are all grateful for your generosity. If more men like you existed, none of them would be living the way they are," she said sadly. Robert sat across from her, noticing the mug of fresh coffee sitting in front of him. Serendipity had that knowing smile on her face. Well I'll be… Robert took the mug in hand and asked,

"Why are all these kids misplaced? Where are their parents?"

"A fair majority were once gang members, but there were also those who developed their powers late, and their parents threw them out to avoid the shame of having a 'freak' living under their roof. In Ashley's case here," she said, indicating the girl, "she was an orphan. Most of the younger ones are either orphans or were saved from foster care."

"Saved?"

Serendipity's head turned to face him, her normally calm face contorted in a look of extreme dislike. "The foster care system is flawed—these children deserve a decent upbringing. What they are given is much worse than you can imagine."

"Don't they do background checks of the families?"

"Not always," she answered softly, cryptic as ever. She stroked Ashley's soft black hair humming softly. Robert mulled over the conversation, his eyes watching the steam rising from the coffee. Taking a sip, he said, "I can't imagine a parent doing that to their children. Throwing them out for something they can't help being? It's ludicrous! It would be like me throwing out my own son just because he's…"

"Static Shock? Don't worry, Robert—I will tell no one. I am bound to honor the secret just as much as you are. I am bound to keep the secret of these children, as well keeping them safe, even if it kills me."

She sighed and continued, "The system is against our kind. Just because we look different, act different, and have our different abilities, everyone hates us. I agree with you—it _is_ ludicrous. These people act in the same way white men have acted against minorities for generations. No one is better than their fellow man—we are all the same. We all see the same sun, same moon, same stars; we all share this world, we are all earthlings, all of us in this country are Americans. Why differentiate?"

"Absolutely, I completely understand." Another sip and he wondered aloud, "Have you ever thought of appealing to someone? Perhaps the Justice League?"

She laughed. "The League! Why, they would turn us out faster than your governments. I am telling you, the world is against people like us—there is nothing to be done."

"That's where you're wrong," he said sternly. Serendipity was taken aback by the conviction in his tone. Using the same tone he had practiced with his own children, he looked straight at her, saying, "I know plenty of people who would help you—I work with all of them."

"I admire your vote of confidence, Robert," she said, inclining her head in reverence, "But you are just one man—I am just one woman. No one, even in this day and age, takes women seriously."

"They will now," a southern-accented male voice said from the doorway. A smart-looking sandy-haired Louisiana boy held up a tape recorder and frowned. "We've been mistreated, all o' us. An' with this 'ere evidence, there ain't no way they can say no to helpin' us."

He replayed the whole tape, and Robert and Serendipity's eyes widened in horror. They knew that voice, they knew that name. The voice was unmistakably that of Miles Fisher.

* * *

_Dakota City Docks, Warehouse #8, 11:16 pm_

Gear had remembered that fighting Ebon was no piece of cake. But even without his old powers, a struggling Ivan was nothing to shake a stick at. The taller older man yanked his arm out of Gear's grasp and hissed, "We can't just leave them in there! We have to do something!"

"Let me at him," Pixie growled, the pinkish light illuminating her clenched fists. Cold Case paced the area outside the chain-link fence impatiently, itching to get back inside.

"C'mon, man! Look, it's six against one! We can win this!"

"No, we can't," Gear said. "Here let me show you. Backpack, pull up any records of Dr. Miles C. Fisher." The little robot crawled down his master's back and perched itself on the fence. A screen flipped up, displaying a light blue-green screen with the word 'Searching' outlined in white. Finally, they found ten matches. Gear pressed against the touch-tone screen at one link and it opened a file to a newspaper article from six years ago.

Ivan drew in a sharp breath. "You're kidding…"

"What?" Pixie said, using her wings to hoist herself up for a better look. "What about Miles?"

Gear explained, "Miles Fisher's real job was working for Alva Corp. About eight years ago, after helping to reanimate Alva Jr. he joined up with Dr. Todd in creating a cure for the Big Bang. Problem was, Fisher was too fascinated with the idea of bang babies that he started developing side experiments. Todd found out about it, and ordered it to be terminated. At the time, Fisher was using lab rats. Once he got in trouble, he went to Alva Corp and started using humans as his test subjects. He was only there for three months before the cops found out about this…"

"Hotstreak looked like he knew him. How?"

"I…don't know yet. Hang on, let me look." He searched a little bit longer, but the seconds it took felt like hours for the other three. Finally, Gear gasped. "Holy shit…"

"What? What!" Ivan pressed. Gear locked gazes with him, the horror evident in his own eyes. "You said your leader was a lady named Natasha?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Look," he pointed at a newspaper photo on the screen. Ivan looked closer, scrutinizing. Then he too, gasped. There in the photo was a scene of a police investigation of Fisher's lab, and in the picture was Serendipity, held inside a glass sphere, wires running all over her body. And when Ivan looked closer, he saw Hotstreak off to the side.

"This picture was taken shortly before Hotstreak was arrested and put away for his twenty-year sentence. After getting out, I think he was…"

"Lashing out," Cold Case nodded. "Getting back at The Man for what they did."

Ivan shook his head wearily. "Teenagers and their love for conspiracy…"

"Don't forget revolution," Pixie added. "Speaking of which…when are we going back in there?"

Gear called Backpack back to him. Once the robot was in place, the hero handed Pixie a shock vox. "Call the cops. We can't bring him down all alone. He knows how to fight meta-humans. Ivan is the only one who might have a chance—even then, you can't fight single-handedly against a psychopath."

"Madmen are too strong," Ivan agreed. "Pix, call the cops. Ice-man, you stick with Gizmo here."

"That's Gear."

"Whatever. I'm checking the perimeter—every building has a weak spot. There has to be a way to get in without too much…"

There was a sudden explosion from the warehouse, flames pouring out of the windows, shattering the glass. The fire shot out through the open windows wildly. Even from their position, the four of them could feel the heat of the inferno. Gear's heart stopped for a second. Virgil and Francis were still in there! He felt like he was going to be sick.

Ivan swallowed hard and finished his statement, "…trouble."

* * *

A/N: Again, another cliffhanger. I'm sorry guys, but I go by the writer's numbah one rule: always give them enough to keep them wanting more. Since you all asked so nicely, I put this all together within two days. Aren't you all lucky? Remember to R/R. 


	10. Chapter 10: In the End

Chapter 10: In the End

A/N: no joke! I know it's a day after April Fools Day, but this is a nice long chapter—no strings attached. No nasty cliffhangers (I feel like I've been torturing you poor people—sorry), maybe a few plot twists, but lotsa tying up of loose ends.

ALSO…I appreciate all your reviews, but there is a fine line between **Constructive Criticism** and _flat-out bitching_ like Simon on 'American Idol'. **Constructive Criticism** means giving me tips about _how to_ _improve_ _my writing_ to make it more enjoyable for everyone. Flat-out bitching does **_NOT_** help me, nor does it help anyone else.

I really hate to be a bitch about this, but I need to be heard.

Grammatical errors? Fine, I respect that—no one's perfect. The places in the plot that don't quite make sense? All will be explained, I promise. Bloopers? Again, no one's perfect. But if you criticize the plot points/twists and story itself (i.e. "This story is so angsty I think I might puke")…this story is in the **angst section** **_FOR A REASON. _**

Angst isn't pretty, and neither is drama most of the time. If you're looking for an author who's carefree and happy all the time and lives in a little perfect life of rainbows, elves, fairies and unicorns, I'm not your author. _This_ author lives to write horror, angst, supernatural, and any matter of gothic stuff. My usual fare tends to be less than kid-friendly. Disney is NOT knocking on my door here, people.

And this is fanfiction and I am the author—if I wanna call Hotness a redhead (which he is, by the way, with blond streaks) then he is thus.

That will be all.

Okay I lied.

The threesome is in the next chapter—cross my heart. It will be long-drawn-out, passionate, and caulk-full of all the nastiest little fantasies this girl can think of. (points to head) see? You can see the devil horns holding up that halo. Honest!

This is the BIG CLIMATIC CHAPTER! WOOHOO!

Warnings: violence, ANGST, and DRAMA. (see above genres)

Disclaimer: Still don't own Static Shock. I have a snowball's chance in hell of ever owning it. We all know it's true.

* * *

_Hawkins Residence, 11:30pm_

All the children had been ushered off to sleep, their little bodies swaddled in blankets, cuddling against each other all over the house. Every room was taken, not one comfortable space was spared. Their chests rose and fell with their soft steady breathing, curled up against each other for warmth.

Robert and Serendipity still sat at the kitchen table, facing each other. The seer's posture was rigid and her face averted from the man, her normally calm countenance threatening to shatter. Her hands were clenched in front of her and though she held her head high, it was more an act of desperation to keep her composure.

Robert sighed raggedly and shook his head. "Natasha…I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"No one did—no one does. It is a secret I'd like no one to know…"

"Still," he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the sleepers. He broached the subject slowly, warily, "Natasha, it's not as if you were…"

"Raped? Robert," her face stared right in his direction. "What we went through makes rape look like a slap in the face. That man—no," she corrected herself. "Miles is not _Man_. Miles…is pure, unadulterated _evil_. He is _consumed_, consumed with a lust to commit the most horrible deeds…the things he did to meta-humans like myself…" she trailed off, shuddering violently, choking back at a sob.

"The things he did…"

Robert's hand reached out to cover hers reassuringly. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, seeing nothing else that would be appropriate short of hugging her. Serendipity's shields around herself lessened, and she took a deep breath, preparing to tell him what she knew.

"I can't remember much about my life before waking up in the labs. I was told…_'You are special, Natasha. You can do things normal people can't_.' Normal?" she asked, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Normal? You see what they did, right then?" she implored him.

"They made you feel like an outcast from day one. Why couldn't you remember anything before that?"

"Perhaps, as the younger ones say these days, I was 'brainwashed'," she scoffed.

"There's the possibility," he concurred seriously. Serendipity ridiculed, "You believe in such nonsense?"

"Virgil deals with it every day—so yes, I do believe in that 'nonsense'. And whatever they did…"

"Torture, Mr. Hawkins," she said, her voice rising dangerously towards a shriek. "They _tortured_ us! Innocent children, gang members—they _died_ in there. People in Fisher's lab _DIED_. He _killed_ them!" she shot up, the chair falling backwards from the force of her movements. She clutched the edge of the table with white knuckles. "You'll never know…" her voice sounded haunted, shaky, teetering on the edge of reason.

"Help me to understand," he pleaded, rushing to calm her down. She shook her head slowly, deceptively calm. Robert had seen plenty of cases like hers—trauma victims, all of them. He had known a few Vietnam Veterans, and they continually had flashbacks. Flashbacks like Serendipity's…

She suddenly collapsed, eyes rolling back into her head, her legs giving out, and he caught her before she hit the floor. Her eyes were closed, but her face was pale, her lips parted and he glimpsed the sheen of her teeth. The seer was breathing intensely, thrashing against him, her nails clawing at him. _She's regressing_, he thought. He heard a few snatches of something from her:

"Let him go…innocent…you bastard. Bastard! No…no, she's too young. No, she's only seven…" tears fell unbidden down her cheeks, sobs raking her chest. Her nails scratched at her own skin. "Unclean…dirty, all of us. Retribution, redemption, revenge! Give us _vengeance_!" she cried.

She was scaring him now. The way she spoke, and the ferocity in her voice scared him more than anything else right now. He tried shaking her gently, calling her name; she snarled and gnashed her teeth like an animal, releasing a fearsome roar of rage. He stepped back in shock as the lights above him flickered noticeably and finally went out. He heard the children stirring in the other room…then he felt two pairs of strong hands drag him back into the safety of the living room.

He was looking into two faces he recognized from many years ago. "Teresa? What are you…?"

Teresa, formerly Talon, put a finger to the man's lips and sent a look to the dark-haired, goateed man crouching next to her. Both were dressed in sweats and sneakers, and it had looked like both had just been called out of bed. Isaac, formerly Shiv, cracked the door to the kitchen open a crack then drew back sharply, throwing his body against the wall. Robert analyzed him in the dark: Shiv had grown taller, his hair was now black, not purple, and he had the makings of a beard on his jaw. His eyes still held the slight mania of his youth, and though he was in the autumn of his prime, he still presented the figure of a valued fighter. It had also looked like he had been doing pretty well for himself.

Teresa on the other hand seemed to be doing _very_ well for herself. She had grown her hair out, it now fell in auburn waves down her back. Her eyes were still sharp as ever, and just as inquisitive. She sent Shiv a look, and he in turn shook his head vehemently, hissing, "You got a snowball's chance in hell of gettin' me in there."

"I wasn't going to suggest that, genius," she snapped back. "What's she doing?"

He shrugged, but the apprehension was evident in his gaze and posture. "Just sittin' there, starin' at the floor…"

"What in God's name are you _doing_ in my house?" Robert demanded. Teresa placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We got a call from an informant—told us to get here and get back-up."

"Back-up? For what?"

"Whoever it was said they cornered the Destroyer. Didn't catch the caller's name," Shiv answered, catching his breath. Even without his powers, his movements were still knife-like in precision; just like Teresa, whose gaze was just as hawk-like as ever. The dark-haired man continued, running a hand down his tired stubbly face, "He says Sparky's in trouble."

Robert's heart clenched with panic, but managed to ask without being too obvious, "Why do you care about what happens to him anyway?"

"Hey!" Shiv said quickly, glaring at the aging man in the darkness. "I may have a bad history with him, but I owe my goddamn life to that overgrown generator. I wouldn't be living today if it weren't for him. Ask Talon," he pointed at her, the sleeve of his over-large hooded sweatshirt slipping over his now-tattooed knuckle. "If it weren't for Static, I'd still be a bang baby, and maybe dead in the gutter at 25. But lookit me now, pops," he pointed at himself and nodded in affirmation, "I'm still kickin'. And Talon's grateful too, so any call from or for Sparky, and we'll come runnin'. Right, Tess?"

"_Teresa_," she corrected, sending him a glare through the darkness that he missed. Robert was able to gauge that neither had seen the other since the second bang years ago. "Mr. Hawkins, right? Virgil's dad?"

"You know my son?"

"We're acquainted," she said simply, and Robert briefly wondered if she knew more than she was telling him. Shiv was watching her expectantly, "So what are we gonna do? The dude on the phone said nothin' so far as helping a crazy lady."

"That '_crazy lady'_," she bit back on calling him an idiot, "Is 'our ticket to tolerance'. Least that's what he said."

"Who is '_he'_?" Robert asked, standing right in front of the closed kitchen door. Teresa didn't answer his question, but warned, "I'd duck if I were you."

"Why?" he didn't have time to even finish his short statement before Shiv bowled into him like a juggernaut, sending both of them to the floor as the kitchen door flew off its hinges and was propelled into the opposite wall, splintering into millions of pieces. The children were wide awake now, the younger ones crying out in surprise. Teresa quickly assuaged their fears and warily looked into the kitchen. Robert and Shiv followed her on hands and knees, peeking around the corner, eyes wide, jaws dropped.

In the middle of the kitchen was a crater of broken linoleum, concrete and the destroyed table. In the middle of the kitchen suspended a huge sphere of light. An unnatural wind had picked up, and was the wind whipped at him, Robert swore he saw something in the middle of that eerie white glowing orb. _Natasha!_

Teresa gasped and pulled both men backwards. "Shiv, get the kids out of here, there's some things I need to tell Mr. Hawkins. Go, now!" She ordered. Mustering up her courage, and gulping once, she got to her feet and took two steps into the ruined kitchen.

Debris and dust whipped at her and stung her eyes, but she nevertheless kept a straight route towards the sink. Robert wondered what she was doing until he saw what she had concealed in her jacket sleeve. He saw the handle of a screwdriver appear in her cupped hand. Teresa slowly walked past the levitating Serendipity, the seer's hair flying wildly about, eyes glowing a bright white.

Robert could feel the tenseness in the air, and watched with bated breath as Teresa reached the sink area. The former bang baby never took her eyes off the seer, staring her down defiantly. He saw the light eerily illuminate the determined face of the young Hispanic woman, her back straight and shoulders thrown back. Slowly, she inched the hand holding the screwdriver towards the light socket.

He knew what she was planning. Before he could stop her, she reacted in the blink of an eye. She used the screwdriver to pry off the cover plate, grab some wires, then cut them. The sparks flew in her grasp and in a split second, Robert watched helplessly from the doorway was he witnessed the visible electricity travel along the light fixtures until hitting the lamp directly over Serendipity's head.

The sparks hit her, and the seer screamed an agonized, tearful cry. It was like a wounded animal—and her body convulsed before the eerie white light dissipated and Serendipity floated back down to a crouching position inside the crater of what was once Robert's kitchen floor.

She was broken, weeping uncontrollably, and Teresa gingerly stepped around fallen debris, taking off her jacket and placing it around Serendipity's shoulders. "Leave me," the seer pleaded. "See to the children. I'll be fine," she finished as she clutched the jacket closer about her shoulders, shaking. Teresa gave her a hard look, but instead of voicing her own opinion, she only nodded and walked away wordlessly.

Taking Robert by the arm, she led him out the front door and into the deserted street. Her widened eyes looked into the kitchen through the outside window, and worry was etched onto her pretty features. As Shiv started ushering sleepy and startled Neo-Breeders back in the door, Teresa began explaining to him to the best of her knowledge.

"Okay, what was she talking about before she…?" she trailed off and cocked her head in the direction of the house. Robert explained quickly, still shaking from nerves. Teresa listened closely then nodded understandingly when he finished his narrative.

"Yeah, I remember that scandal. Shiv and I were lucky. Hotstreak not so much…"

"Hotstreak?" Robert looked at her closely. "Hotstreak was a part of that?"

"He was one of the test subjects. Fisher must have used some of Red's DNA to create his own Bang gas…" she affirmed.

"Did he succeed?"

Teresa shrugged, and shook her head once. "All of it was destroyed, and the records and instructions for making it too. There will never be another time or place when someone will figure out how to make that stuff again. But Hotstreak," she shook her head sadly, sorrowfully, pitiably. "I don't know what happened to him in there…he said to me before he was arrested and sent away that he was looking for some money at the time so he could afford rent to that crappy apartment of his. He was coming around to all his old buddies, trying to scrounge up some cash…" she reflected, a sad memory in her mind. "Fisher offered him cold cash, up front, and said that he'd be taking part in a case study, but you know Hotstreak…" she rolled her eyes. "He didn't think to read the fine print."

"That always got Francis into trouble," Robert admitted grudgingly. As much as he had disliked him, his mind was still on the conversation with Virgil earlier that night.

Teresa continued, "He took part in that 'study' for about three months, up until Fisher was arrested. Fisher wasn't charged let alone convicted, thanks to his pal Alva," she spat out the name like a curse. "When Hotstreak found out that Fisher wasn't getting his just desserts, it was…he just went wild—crazy, even. It was scary." She crossed her arms and looked severely troubled. "After that, he did a lot of stupid shit that eventually put him in the clink at 18—and it was petty stuff too, no felonies. It all just accumulated after a while…"

"What's interesting," Robert though aloud as the last Neo-Breed walked through his front door, "Is that he willingly worked with scientists while he was in prison, just so he could keep his powers."

"What's so interesting about that?" she asked.

"If he was treated so badly by Fisher because he had powers, wouldn't he want to get rid of them?"

Teresa shrugged, shivering in the cold night without her jacket. She replied offhandedly, "Unless he wanted revenge…"

* * *

_Warehouse #8, Interior, 11:45 pm_

"Boo."

Miles had little time to react before he felt the flames on his back, the force behind the blow propelling him a few feet forward. He clenched his fists and teeth, refusing to scream. Closing his eyes tightly, he bit down hard on his lip so that blood seeped down his chin. Gaining his composure, he turned to face the fiery meta-human and opened his eyes.

Hotstreak took a cautionary step back under the onslaught of Miles' icy, mad glare. Miles' eyes denied any thought or reason, any semblance to humanity left in him.

"Uh, Hotstreak?" Static hissed, catching the mad look. "Yeah, letting me go, that can help."

"Oh, right…" he said, inching over towards the gurney. Hotstreak made sure not to make any sudden movements. His jade eyes caught sight of the knives held in Fisher's grip, trembling with his rage. _Shit, he's about to seriously crack!_

Throwing caution to the wind, he rushed over and formed a fireball in his hand. "Hold still!" he ordered. Static's body tensed as the heat brushed past him, burning away the restraints. Sitting up quickly, he tried to ignore the weird rush in his head that made him dizzy from sitting up too fast. Hotstreak grabbed his wrists and held them firm, his hot hands clamping down on the leaden bracelets.

"I'm gonna apologize in advance," the pyro-kinetic said. Static felt the lead on his wrists grow hotter and hotter. He yelped, "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

With a mighty roar, Fisher charged. Hotstreak took away his hands from Static's wrists, throwing his arms in front of his face, fire flaring up around his body and Static's.

Thinking quickly, the electric hero back-flipped over the gurney, out of range from Fisher's slashing blades. He used his legs to up-end the gurney into Fisher's path, hitting the killer from the side. Hotstreak helped him up to him feet and instructed him to hold still again, finally getting the lead to completely melt away.

"Try it out. Still have your powers?"

"Hang on." He stood, feet shoulder's width apart, arms by his side, hands balled into fists. Concentrating, he felt the familiar surge of power running through his body. Finally his body erupted into an electric field. Electric charges wrapped themselves around his body, traveling over his clothes. Hotstreak watched the electricity travel all over, struggling to keep his hormones under control. _As hot as that is, right now isn't the best time…_

As if he could read his mind, Fisher slashed at Hotstreak's exposed back. The fiery bang-baby shrieked in pain as he felt the sting of the blade, then the warmth soaking into his jacket. He tore it off, feeling the cold sweat perspiring on his body. He threw the article away, focusing his attention on the killer.

"What's the matter?" he flame-haired man asked, ignoring his own wound, albeit with much difficultly. "Haven't had enough?"

"You just won't go down," Fisher said with awe. Then he smirked. "I've always liked that about you—you tolerated more than the others."

"Fuck you, Fisher."

This angered him more, and he charged again, Hotstreak dodging the blades to the best of his abilities, then made to throw a fireball.

Static saw them before Hotstreak did and cried out, "Francis, DON'T!"

Too late.

Static only had enough time to pounce on Hotstreak, sending them both to the floor just as the oil drums behind Fisher exploded.

* * *

_Outside Warehouse #8, Lot D, Dakota City Docks, 11:20 pm_

The quartet barely had time to mull over what had just happened before Cold Case pointed at something. "Look! I see an opening!"

"Where?" Ivan asked, straining to follow the boy's finger. Cold Case directed him. "Over there. See the hole in the wall?"

"Can we make it through there?" Ivan asked Gear. The genius mentally calculated—given the amount of time they had, and confirming how long it would take until the roof eventually collapsed and provided that Virgil and Francis were still…

He didn't want to think about that.

"We should be able to get in and out. But we need to work together on this."

"Deal," he said finally. Gear was surprised. Ebon had never been one to conform to authority or even a partnership, and here he was, agreeing to work with his long-time enemy. Brushing this aside, Gear took control. Instructing Cold case, he said, "I need you to freeze up the flames as we enter. Miss…um…"

"Pixie."

"Yeah—can you be able to clear a path?"

"I can try. I'll be able to carry anyone out if need be," she said, her sweet face set with gravity. Gear nodded, glancing at all of them. "Remember, just follow my lead, we get in and out without anyone getting hurt. Here's what everyone needs to do…"

* * *

_Inside Warehouse #8, 11:21 pm_

In the resulting blast, Static felt the scorching flames lick at his face, and was suddenly aware of a burning, searing heat fly across his face. It didn't register until later that what was burning was also hiding his secret. _My mask!_

He struggled to hide his face, but smoke got into his eyes and he coughed violently. He felt Hotstreak's hand on his back, patting it forcibly.

"Static? _Static_! Are you…?"

He made the mistake of looking up into his jade eyes. Those green orbs widened, and the redhead's jaw dropped. For a moment, time stood still as both men stared at each other, one unmasked before the other. Francis' voice refused to work, but he still managed to squeak out, "V-Virgil?"

"You!" Fisher screamed, grabbing their attention. "You have meddled for the last time!" the maddened killer ignored the flames reaching up around him, the warehouse going up into flames all around him. The whole place was ablaze, and to the two meta-humans the place reminded them of Hell. And they'd be damned if the figure in front of them wasn't Satan himself.

Hotstreak helped Virgil to straighten up. "You get out of here, I'll handle him."

"Are you crazy? I can't leave you here!"

"Look!" he grabbed virgil forcibly, holding him by the shoulders. "I can handle fire—oyu can't. get out while the roof still holds."

"I'm not leaving you in here!"

"GET OUT NOW!" he yelled. Casting one glance over to Fisher, Hotstreak made one last split-second decision. He leaned down and took Virgil's lips. "Just so you know," the meta-human whispered in the hero's ear, "I love you. Tell Gear I love you both."

"Francis…"

"Goodbye, Static." With that, he shoved him backwards andVirgil felt himself being lifted up off the ground. Momentarily panicking, he didn't realize he was being helped until a sweet voice said, "Need a lift?"

He looked up into the smiling face of Pixie. She hoisted him up so that his arm was around her shoulders, and her one arm around his waist. "Hang on," she ordered. Squinting her eyes shut, Virgil heard a popping sound,closing his owneyes,and when he opened them, he found that he was outside in the parking lot.

"How…?"

She grinned, "One of my powers: teleportation. Comes in handy when you're trying to lift a week's worth of bread from the market, don't you think?"

"What about Hotstreak!" he screamed. She slapped him. Then she looked apologetic.

"Sorry, but you getting hysterical. He'll be fine—Gear, Ivan and Akira are on it."

"But…"

"Please, Static," she pleaded. "Just trust me. Trust _us_."

Suddenly, a loud noise alerted their attention. The creaking of metal, and a second explosion caused them both to cry out in shock. Virgil's mouth ran dry and he panicked. The roof was collapsing! He darted forward, and Pixie had a hard time holding him back, her wings flapping furiously.

"I'm sorry to do this to you again," she grunted out with exertion, and Virgil felt something hit the back of his knees. His legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground, on all fours.

"What the hell was that for!"

"Hey," she snapped, hands on her hips, "I could've gone for the groin, but I decided to be lenient. Look!" she pointed. Virgil looked up and saw some of the flames dissipating. Pixie wondered aloud, "What the hell is going on?"

"Hotstreak," he said simply, a small smile flitting across his face.

* * *

_Inside, Warehouse #8, 11:25 pm_

Hotstreak grinned with false bravado. "The cavalry's arrived. Huh," he spotted Ivan. "Didn't think I'd see your ugly mug again."

"Back at ya," he shot back.

Cold Case got between them, the temporary voice of reason. "Hey! If you guys are done playing alpha male, we got a situation here!" He had barely finished his statement when he was hit in the back by a heavy iron pole. The boy went down with a yelp, crying out in agony, his back in severe pain.

Miles tossed the iron pipe away from him, pulling a gun out of a back pocket. He clicked off the safety and aimed at Ivan. "You've gotten in the way for the last time! No one is standing in front of my vengeance!"

"Miles," Gear suddenly popped up next to him. "You seriously need to chill out." The genius threw a zap cap, which Fisher dodged expertly, side-stepping, then lunging forward, pulling his favorite knife out, aiming for Gear's abdomen. He was suddenly pulled back when Ivan got his hands on him, yanking him back.

The former meta-human struggled with him, and was shocked to find out the truth of the being he was battling with. He called out to Gear, "He's lost it! I'm fighting a madman's strength here! Ideas?"

"I've got one," Hotstreak said menacingly. Reaching his arms out to the side, he absorbed the nearby fire, then let his hands erupt into flame. "Let me have him."

"We don't have time for this!" Gear yelled, Picking up Cold Case, he motioned to the gaping hole in the warehouse's wall. "We have to get out of here…"

All of them but Fisher looked above when they heard the loud creaking of bending metal. Ivan cursed loudly, "_SHIT_!"

"The roof!" Hotstreak yelled. He turned to Gear and Ivan, giving both a hard look. "Get out!" I can handle this guy!"

"I've had enough of this shit," Ivan growled, grabbing Hotstreak by the arm, pulling him towards the only exit. "Let's go!"

"Then what about…" his pleas were met by deaf ears. Gear had already airlifted a comatose Cold Case out of the burning edifice, and as Ivan was pulling him along, Hotstreak heard him scream and stumble after Fisher had fired his gun. _He's hit!_

But Ivan kept going. He was limping, but he started to sprint. A second shot rang out, Ivan felt it graze his right side. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain and the smoke filling his eyes and lungs. Just a few more feet…

His vision started to darken, he attributed it to the smoke, but he was also slowing down. _No! I'm not letting this happen!_

He felt himself lifted into strong arms, and someone running…_Why is Red doing this?_ he wondered before blacking out.

Hotstreak made it out of the building, jumping over the pile of debris and fallen wall and into the noticeably cooler night. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Fisher following him, and he made another quick decision. He stopped and laid Ivan on the ground, then turned to face his old tormenter.

The pyro-kinetic ran forward, vaulting over the pile of debris, flames flaring up around him. He landed in a crouch in front of the killer, who watching him, the mad murderous light illuminated hellishly by the fire surrounding him. The killer failed to notice what Hotstreak did, however.

The meta-human jumped back and stood slowly, like a demon rising from the deepest circle of Hell. His eyes blazed with an intensity only matched by the flaring warehouse, the green hue of those orbs flaring up like a wildfire. He motioned for Fisher to come at him. The killer charged…

And was cut down with a cry as the steel beam above him collapsed on him. The scream emitted from that man rivaled the agonized screech of an wounded animal, releasing the whimpers of a dying man. He miraculously survived, but his ribcage was crushed, the bones piercing the organs they were intended to protect. He implored the meta-human standing over him as burning debris fell around him, "Please, Francis, help me! It wasn't supposed to end this way! All those people—you have to continue my mission. Against adultery…"

Hotstreak cruelly stepped on the man's outstretched hand. His eyes blazed even more furiously than before. Miles pleaded again, "At least end my misery then…"

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction." With that, he turned on his heel and calmly walked away, the ceiling finally collapsing as he stepped out into the open air.

Gear was standing over Ivan, Cold Case lying next to him, Backpack running a full analysis of their condition while Pixie knelt next to them, holding their hands protectively. Virgil was the first to notice Francis walk out of the flames. He was also the only one to notice the look of pain that crossed the fiery meta-human's face as the roof completely fell in, and heard Miles Fisher's last dying cries as the fire inside the building engulfed him.

The screeches rent through the crisp night air, curdling blood, and sickening those still conscious. That was when Francis collapsed on hands and knees with exhaustion, giving into the nausea that plagued him. Virgil was by his side in a heartbeat, throwing his arms around him.

"It's okay, man."

Francis wiped his mouth, his face flushed, yet pale. "Yeah, now it is," he said, accepting the embrace, enjoying the little time he had left with them…

* * *

_Hawkins Residence, 11:30 pm_

Teresa had Shiv move Serendipity to Sharon's old room, the seer lying prone under the clean sheets of the comfy bed. The comforter was pulled up to her shoulders, her chest lightly rising and falling peacefully.

Robert sat at Sharon's old desk, elbows on his knees, watching over her. A knock came to the door and Teresa entered, carrying a mug of coffee. She held it up, a silent offer. Robert accepted it with a courteous and grateful nod, but didn't drink. Both people stared at Serendipity.

"Think she'll be alright?" she murmured. Robert sighed through his nose.

"I think so. She looks like she should waking up any minute…"

"I hope that electricity didn't hit her too bad…"

"She was conscious when she snapped out of it," Shiv said, entering the room. He pointed out the door, "I got the kids to settle down a little. A few are still awake—and hungry. You mind if we raid the fridge?"

"Help yourself. You earned it," Robert said with a knowing smile.

"Sweet!"Shiv murmured as he swept out the door. Robert smiled sardonically. "Does he have family?"

"A girlfriend," Teresa said, rolling her eyes. "How she puts up with him…" she was interrupted when Serendipity sat up suddenly, gasping. Robert rose instinctively, but the seer held up a hand to halt him.

"I'm fine," she smiled, "I'm _better_ than fine. It's over." She faced them, a wide, relieved smile on her tired face. "They have succeeded."

* * *

_Dakota City Docks, Lot D, 1:54 am_

"Hey, bro, how ya feelin'?" Gear sidled up to him after emergency vehicles arrived. Virgil's mask had completely been burned away, only a square millimeter of the original article remained. He was using both his coat and the large icepack he'd been given for the blow to his head as a temporary aid to hide his identity.

"Like hell. You?" he said, his throat sore.

"I've got a few more scars to add to my list, but nothing too nasty. Ivan and Akira were taken to the hospital, Pixie rode in the ambulance with them. From what I hear, they should be fine. The coroner just left with Fisher's body—or at least what's left of it."

"Hotstreak really did a number didn't he?"

"On Fisher?"

Virgil shook his head. "The warehouse."

"Yeah, well that thing was practically a fire hazard waiting to happen anyway. I'd give you the full figures, like how long it _should_ have taken for the place to go up in flames, as well as a time ratio between ignition and total eradication, but I'm guessing your poor head can't take anymore pain."

"Thanks," he said gratefully. "Appreciate it."

"Anytime."

They sat in silence, catatonically watching the paramedics and firemen rush about the scene.

"Rich?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Why did he take us hostage? That's the one thing I still don't understand," Virgil asked, maneuvering the ice pack so it covered more of his eyes. Gear sat next to him on the back of the ambulance, hands on his thighs.

"V, he was delusional and a psychopath—it's not supposed to make sense to people like us. For all intensive purposes, this looks like one of those 'straw that broke the camel's back' stories—all these failures just piled up until he snapped."

"Is that our final answer? Is that all we're going to say?"

"V, Miles is dead, the Neo-Breed is safe from harm thanks to that bill Congress wants to put through, thanks to us; and Fisher's victims have been avenged. As far as we're concerned, this case is over."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Virgil looked across the lot at Hotstreak, who was shaking hands with the Warden of the Dakota Penitentiary, standing by as policemen handcuffed him. Gear's eyes followed Virgil's gaze and the genius sighed dismally. "I know, I don't like it either."

"He risked his life for us—he almost died. And we're thanking him by sending him back?"

"Then again, it _is_ for only a year…" Gear said, a furtive smile tugging at his lips. Virgil recognized the tone in his lover's voice and asked, "What are you planning?"

"You'll see…"

* * *

_Hawkins Residence, Two days later, 12:23 pm_

Robert, Virgil, and Richie sat at the kitchen table, finishing off their lunch. Robert had invited them over, thinking they needed some time to talk things over. Without even knowing it, Robert Hawkins had become a therapist for the two grown men. They had arrived early that morning and had talked all day.

Now they were silent, contemplating what would be appropriate to say next. It was Richie who cleared his throat and said silently, "You know, its only been two days, and I already miss him."

Virgil smirked. "Yeah, he grew on us, didn't he?"

"You mean Francis?" Robert asked. They nodded.

"I thought that because he helped us, he'd get pardoned," Virgil said, "But I know that's a false hope. Our deal was getting him out in a year, and thankfully they awarded him that priveldge."

"Do you know," Robert said after finishing off his drink. "After what happened, they said on the news that Francis has been getting fanmail from Dakota citizens—seems people want to thank him for getting rid of the Destroyer."

"In the end though," Richie said, "No one really 'got rid of him'—Miles died in an accident."

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Virgil reasoned, thoughtfully chewing. "I mean, its not like anyone's going to miss him."

"This is true."

"But look on the bright side boys," Robert said, standing and collecting his dishes. "At least its over. And even greater news—the city council just passed a motion giving the Neo-Breed a place to stay."

"A shelter?" Virgil asked, his interest peaked. "Where's it going to be?"

"Remember that old building next to the community center that they were going to turn into stores?"

Virgil assented. Robert smiled, "They are completely remodeling it—it'll be a home for all of them. Ivan Evans and Natasha Marlowe will be co-managers."

"Good for them," Richie said enthusiastically. "You know, V," he said as he put his dishes in the sink. "You could have told me about them from the beginning."

"But I would have been breaking my word. I swore I wouldn't tell anyone."

Robert patted his son on the back. "Then we should be thankful that you're as honorable as you are, son."

Virgil shrugged as he stood. "Didn't get into the League by being a crook."

"Speaking of the League," Richie said, leaning against the counter. "I got a call from Clark yesterday, you know, after he gave us 'sick leave'?"

"Yeah?"

"He said that because Pixie and Cold Case helped, he and the other originals are considering letting them join up."

"Are you serious?" Virgil asked, elated. "That's great! Was bruce behind it too?"

"Sure was, oddly enough. You know how he is…"

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Do I ever…"

The phone rang and Robert answered, then grinning he said, "Teresa! How are you? Yes, we're fine. I have the boys over. What's that? That's great! That's perfect. Of course, not a problem. Thank you. Tell Shiv I said hello. Mm-hmm, good-bye."

"What was that about?" his son asked, a very confused look on his face. Richie just looked concerned. Robert held up his hands.

"Looks like you caught me. Remember when the Kids came over and Serendipity had that breakdown?" he said seriously. They nodded.

"I would have been hurt if Teresa and Shiv hadn't arrived…"

"Are these the same Teresa and Shiv we know?" Richie looked surprised. Robert had left out that particular piece of information when he had told them about his own momentous night

"They certainly are. I decided to have a little discretion as far as they were concerned."

"That's odd," Richie said, "Why would they be here?"

"They said they got a call from a mysterious benefactor, telling them to come here. It was the oddest thing. But I was still grateful for them. They've become fine, up-standing citizens."

"Even Shiv?"

"Especially him."

"Weird," Virgil said, shaking his head. Robert gave him a hard look. "I thought you learned not to think so badly of others."

"I did, but I have a hard time believing Shiv became a good citizen. But, I see your point."

They moved to the living room, and sat next to each other on the couch. For a while, none of them said anything, or even moved. Robert looked over at the boys. He still called them boys, even after all these years. he knew they were men now, but that still didn't stop him. He briefly wondered if Richie's father knew about anything yet—about Richie being a hero on a regular basis, as well as Virgil's boyfriend. He doubted it.

The boys had the most melancholy looks on their faces, their eyes staring out into space. "Is anyone else aware of how silent it got?" Richie asked, deadpan. Virgil smirked.

"No Rich, we're making lots of noise—you've just gone deaf."

Richie punched him playfully. "We really miss him, don't we?"

"Sure do."

"Then again, it is only a year…who knows? Maybe he'll get out early for good behavior."

"Maybe we should visit?"

Robert shook his head. "Not for a while, I think. Give him time to think—that's what all of you need."

"Pops," Virgil said seriously. "You remember telling me about how you and Moms met? When you took one look at her and thought 'this is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with'?"

"That's how we feel about Francis," Richie said, with equal sincerity. Robert looked at both of them and smiled.

"Then I wish you boys the best of luck."

* * *

There is one more chapter! The big love scene is next! 


	11. Chapter 11: The Things He Loves

Chapter 11: The Things He Loves

Warnings: Drum roll please!...SLASH! (throws confetti) this is the ONE people! WEEE! God, I had so much fun writing this chapter! XD BTW, this chapter is rated **M**. Gah, I'm still blushing from writing that one scene…meh, you've been **warned!** Okay? Don't bitch me out because _**I GAVE YOU FAIR WARNING**_. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned this, I wouldn't be on writing fanfiction. I'd be a rich little biyotch, and we all know that isn't true. So don't sue, cuz I don't have any money.

* * *

From the offices of Dr. Joan McKenzie, psychological therapist:

Excerpt: from the journal of Francis J. Stone, June 12, 20—, two months following his release from Dakota Penitentiary.

_To be fair, I guess I do miss them. Saying that my experience with them didn't change me in some way would be an outright lie. I didn't even get to say goodbye._

_But things are different now. I'm a free man, living my life to the fullest. Okay, trying to, anyway. I got a job as a mechanic after getting my GED shortly after getting out. I was surprised to see some of the guys from my old gang and Wade's gang working together in the same place and not trying to kill each other. Danny Chen, a tough-looking Chinese dude that used to run with Wade's crew, is my boss. _

_He's an okay guy—he has a wife and kids and all happy shit like that. He told me he doesn't judge people like he used to. He's born again Christian, if you'll believe that. I don't; but that's just me. He told me lots of things at the interview: one of them being that Wade had gotten mixed up with drug dealing and had gotten two plugs to the head after a bad deal a few years back. Not to sound heartless, but he had it coming. _I'm_ not gonna miss him, I know that much. Danny also told me they were looking to hire some guys who knew cars and motorcycles…he hired me on the spot._

_It's refreshing to be working with the old crew. Most of them have moved on though, got families, girlfriends, fiancés, and all happy crap. They keep asking me why I'm still single, and why don't I settle down? I tell them to fuck off and mind their own business. So they do. _

_Okay, I admit I wasn't so…belligerent (thank you, Word-A-Day calendars) when Danny asked me the same question one day, in passing. "You're gay, aren't you?" he asked, just like that, like it wasn't a big deal. And actually, it isn't. I said yes, I was gay. What was his point? He only shrugged and said, "I've got a friend—guy friend—who's trying to forget a bad relationship. Think you might wanna give him a chance?"_

_Yes, I did date other guys—about five in all. Nothing special, just a small casual dinner, maybe a couple beers at a bar then proceed to my place and have sex. I guess I'm a pretty good partner, if what they tell me is any indication. With girls, I noticed they'd say anything just to gain a guy's favor. With men, I don't get that._

'_Sex is like pizza', one of my dates told me once, 'when it's good, it's really good. When it's bad, it's still pretty damn good'. I realized he was right—and if that were the case, then I've been making the best pizza Dakota's ever had. How's _that_ for an ego boost?_

_I learned from experience that guys won't say anything unless the sex was really good—and every partner I ever had always said the same thing: "WOW." _

_That's it._

_Just 'wow'._

_No, I'm not kidding._

_Guys aren't verbal creatures, and women never shut up. _

_I'm kidding, I love women. A little annoying sometimes, but still, I know I have a lot in common with them. Gay guys and women both _like_ women, but _lust_ after men. So in that way, we aren't that different._

_Aw, fuck it. The only reason I'm keeping this journal-thing is because my therapist wants me to. She says it'll help her understand me better and help me to understand myself better. Good luck with that, doc._

_How do I feel right now? Simple…_

_I feel empty._

_Empty._

_As in, devoid of fullness, not full, blank, vacant. I haven't felt any real emotion for a long time. No rage, elation, none of that. I've been taking everything in stride, taking it easy. I wonder if they've been slipping anti-depressants in my food. I've never felt so…hollow._

_Shut up, I know what you're going to say. I miss them. That's why I feel empty…hollow…_

Alone.

_Okay fine! I'm lonely! There. I said it—there it is in black and white. I. Miss. Them. Hell, I even think I _love_ them. So what's my problem? _

_They don't want a damn thing to do with me._

_Think about it, why would they want an ex-convict and hothead around them when they have each other? Does that make any sense? No, its best I move on, forget about them, let them live their lives in peace. I'll just be a spot on those memories…_

_I'll move on. There's plenty of guys out there for me—plenty. Okay, not all of them are gay (in my case, the good ones are either already taken or they're straight). But there's someone for everyone. Right?_

_Maybe I'll give Chris a call back, see if he's interested in another date. Or maybe Will. _Definitely_ not calling Jack—he's _way_ too clingy, he'd make a _girl_ flinch. Maybe I'll just call Will; he seemed like a cool enough guy. Good sense of humor, smart, funny, nice smile…_

_Though he's not as smart as Richie, and his smile isn't as dazzling as Virgil's…

* * *

_

_One year later…_

_Friday, 12:30 pm. Chen's Body Shop, Dakota City_

He was working late that night. Or planning to at any rate. Danny had called him into his office around noon and said, "Frank, go home."

It had become customary around the garage that they called him 'Frank'. He hated being called Frankie (or Fran-kay), and having a guy named 'Francis' working in a garage seemed so…wrong. Luckily, Francis let it slide—he actually liked his boss, or tolerated him at least.

"Why should I go home?" he challenged.

"Because I'm your boss, and I said so."

"Dan, I gotta pay the bills…"

"Then I'm giving you a raise starting now," he said quickly, his face buried in the newspaper's Auto section.

"That's great but…"

"Frank," he said, turning in his chair, put down the paper and sighed tiredly. "You have an _amazing_ work ethic—and I don't say this lightly. I know you from middle school, and you were _never_ this hard of a worker. You need some time off before you kill yourself."

"What am I supposed to do with the free time?"

Danny shrugged. "_Chill out_?" he offered. "Rent some movies, order take-out, do whatever—just unwind. You've been really tense lately—everyone's noticed."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"I'll bet," Danny said with a smirk. "If I had as many lovers as you, I'd look a bit stressed too."

"Screw you, too." He allowed himself a smile. _Alright, you win this round, you wry bastard_. "See you tomorrow morning?"

"Actually," Dan said, standing, "I've decided to give you an extended vacation."

"Meaning…?"

"You're going on vacation—I don't think I can say it any plainer than that, Red."

"How long?"

"One week," he said, throwing his arm over the taller man's shoulders, leading him to the door of his office. "One week to get out of the city and travel. Go to the mountains, the beach, skiing, whitewater rafting, whatever floats your boat."

"Do I look like I ski?" he asked skeptically.

"I'm only bouncing ideas off you. Listen," he stopped him. "Your probation is over starting tomorrow. You really will be a _free man_ then—go enjoy yourself! You helped Static and Gear defeat the Dakota Destroyer, and you've been working your ass off since then to become a model citizen—if anyone deserves a vacation, it's you."

Francis wanted to believe him—really he did, but there was something behind Danny's eyes, a slight mischievousness that went unchecked across his gaze. "What are you planning?"

"Me?" he blinked. "Why would I plan anything?"

"Fine, don't tell me," he huffed, shoving his hands into his grease-stained jeans. "So the deal is I leave for lunch and don't come back until…"

"Monday the 8th," Danny answered, stepping back towards his desk. "Why not go to DC for the Fourth of July? That should be exciting."

"Yeah, I'll think about it," he said unenthusiastically. Once Francis had left his office, Danny waited five minutes until he heard him saying his goodbyes then finally walking out the door.

Danny Chen picked up his phone and dialed the number he had written down earlier and waited patiently as the other end rang, the man leaning back in his chair.

"_Hello?"_

"He's _coming_…" Danny said in a sing-song voice. He couldn't help but grin. He loved pulling jobs like these. He was setting up F-stop to get just what he deserved… "You guys ready for him?"

"_Ready and waiting."_

"Good—now, he'll stop for lunch, maybe hit a couple bars, but he'll definitely stop at the store and pick some stuff up. He should be getting back around dinner-time. So be ready. Don't let me down, boys."

"_Don't worry—it's all taken care of."

* * *

_

_Dakota, 410B Cornerstone Ave. 9:34 pm_

The minute he walked out of the garage, his mind had gone blank. _Well how the hell am I going to spend the next 6 hours until dinner?_ An even better question was what he was doing for his vacation. At midnight tonight, his probationary period was up, and he could go anywhere he wanted.

The beach? No, he didn't like the sand. Mountains? Too cold. Nope, looked like he was going to be staying in town. Or maybe he'd go to New York for a few days—or maybe take Danny's suggestion and see the nation's capital. Those seemed more promising. Cities always did. They were his natural habitat, and he felt severely out of place anywhere else.

So Washington DC it was. He'd take the next plane there, which he found would leave the next day around 3:30 pm. He booked his flight with the cheapest tickets available, went to get some supplies for the trip, then went home.

It was pretty late, and he was starving. Hunger aside, he was also drained. Emotionally, physically, mentally…he hadn't been getting much sleep lately (mostly thanks to Will, the guy he was dating). Will had recently said they "needed some space". Easy translation: "I want to date other people."

Francis shrugged. _Okay, no big—not a problem_. He didn't feel like they were going anywhere anyway. The sex was great, he had to admit, but it always made him feel…used. He hated that feeling.

He climbed the stoop to his apartment building, a grungy soiled-looking red brick edifice with dark, lime-painted windows. He arranged the bags of groceries in his arms and dug into his jacket pocket for his keys. Turning the lock to the rusty cast-iron front door, he walked past his landlord, completely ignoring the obese, hairy and smelly old man.

"Stone! Where's the rent?" he demanded.

"I paid you yesterday."

"I don't see money…_show me the mon_—'"

"You really need to stop watching '_Jerry McGuire'_ so much," Francis said. He cocked his head in the direction of the mailboxes along the wall. "The envelope should be in its usual place." As he climbed the stairs, the landlord heckled him,

"If I don't see rent, you're gonna see the street, kid."

"Duly noted," Francis said blandly, ignoring him. He opened the door to his apartment and stepped inside, dropping the brown paper bags at his feet. He closed the door and fit the locks, and once he was satisfied, he picked up his bags and proceeded to the tiny kitchen, if it could be called that.

It was a very modest two-room apartment, not including the bathroom. The kitchen and living area was practically in the same room. Francis' kitchen was merely a tiny refrigerator, microwave, Foreman grill, and an aged electric stove that refused to work. Whenever he needed to boil something, he just used his own powers for cooking. Francis had learned early on that if it didn't taste right, it wasn't cooked well enough, and that normally resulted in his getting violently ill. He had taught himself to cook, mostly by trial and error, and mostly error. That wasn't to say he wasn't a good cook—he just thought too much. An oxymoron in itself; Hotstreak…_thinking_…it didn't seem feasible.

He started putting away his meager groceries silently, mellow, depressed. _Okay, maybe I _should_ have asked for anti-depressants_, he thought. He shook himself out of it. The last thing he needed was for everyone to think he'd lost it. He'd just gotten his freedom; he didn't need to be committed to an institution.

Suddenly he was aware of something. Two somethings. One, he could smell something…cooking—it smelled great. Two, that great-smelling food was coming from his oven.

He opened the creaky oven door a crack and, sure enough, the inside light kicked on and Francis saw a rotisserie chicken warming on the middle rack. As a matter of fact, there was even a bottle of Merlot on his counter, and three wine glasses…

_What the hell?_ Suddenly he was aware of something else in his apartment. Sitting on the lumpy old couch right across from him were two figures…

Panicked, he switched on the overhead light and he stood stock-still. Sitting there on his couch were Virgil and Richie. They weren't smiling, nor were they frowning, and they were dressed nicely enough, like they had just come from a respectable party. They watched him expectantly, Richie raising an eyebrow and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The blond man was still in his work clothes, beige slacks, light blue shirt and navy blue tie. He cocked his head. "Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Francis asked back.

"Don't you have something to say?" the genius asked.

"What are you doing here?"

Virgil chuckled and sat forward. He was wearing a dove-gray suit, the jacket thrown over the back of the couch, the crimson tie and first two buttons of the white shirt undone. "Not one to beat around the bush, huh? How've you been, Francis?"

"I can't complain."

"Uh-huh…"

"Really, I can't—I'm a free man, I've got a job, my own place…"

"A _crappy_ place," Richie noted, his blue eyes roving over the place. There were places on the walls stained with god only knew what, and he didn't want to think about it. "Is this how you've been living for the past two years?"

"Has it really been that long?" he asked, leaning against the wall, still looking at them. He sighed, "It has, hasn't it? Damn."

"We missed you," Virgil said truthfully.

Francis frowned. "You're just saying that."

"No," the darker man said, standing and crossing the distance between them. "I'm not just saying that. Rich and I missed you. We want you to live with us."

Taken aback, he had no idea how to answer that. He only looked into Virgil's eyes sorrowfully. Breaking the eye contact, he pushed against the wall and paced. "Virg, listen…I know that…the whole me finding out you were Static and vice versa, that was pretty fucked up. I mean, it's been messing with my mind for…"

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know!" he whirled on him. "Shit, I don't know whether I love Static or Virgil!" he said suddenly. Then he waited. He waited for anything, for Virgil to say anything at all. Laugh at him, yell at him, hit him for his stupidity, he didn't care. What he didn't expect was to feel Virgil's lips on his own.

It was a simple, chaste kiss, sweet and caring. It was so completely foreign to him, but in a good way. When Virgil pulled away, Francis saw in the other man's eyes what could only be attributed as…love.

"It doesn't matter whether you love Static or Virgil," he assured. "So long as I love you and so long as Richie loves you…"

"So long as we love you…" Richie corrected, rising and stepping over to them. "That's all that matters."

Francis was speechless. Here he was, faced with the very thing he had been dreaming of for the longest time, and he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He wanted to say something romantic, sexy even. Instead, he opted for embracing both of them.

"Jesus Christ…I love you too. Both of you."

"We love you too, Francis," Virgil whispered in his ear. He felt their arms tighten around him and Richie's lips kissing his neck, while Virgil's lips claimed his own. The darker man leaned his forehead against his own and said, "That's for last time."

"Thanks." He didn't know why he said it, but it felt like the right thing to say. Besides, he couldn't really concentrate with Richie doing _that_.

The blond man's hand had reached down and lightly brushed against his crotch. Francis hissed in appreciation as he felt Virgil's tongue travel up his neck, leaving a hot trail of moistness, the hero pausing only long enough to kiss just below his ear.

"Oh god…" he gasped, arching his body into him, the blood rushing south. His head was swimming from the close physical contact, and he was drowning in pleasure already. He felt Richie pulling back on him, the blonde's fingers turning his head to face him. He tasted his lips gently at first, then Richie's kisses became rougher, more passionate. He pulled back again, leading him away. Virgil whined in protest. Richie paused long enough to gasp out, "Bed. Now."

"Good idea," Francis concurred, enthusiastically.

He disengaged himself from them, taking one hand from each and led them into his sparse bedroom, furnished with only the queen-sized bed, bedside table and lamp. A mirror hung opposite the bed and Virgil couldn't help the suggestive smirk that crossed his lips when he saw it. Francis noticed the queer smile. "What's so funny?"

"This," Virgil leaned forward and dug his hand into Francis' abdomen. The redhead shrieked with laughter, then promptly covered his mouth, staring between the other men with a panicked look on his face.

Richie and Virgil shared a wicked grin, and then looked wolfishly at Francis. "Hey Frank," Richie asked, "Are you…ticklish?"

"No," he answered abruptly. Maybe too abruptly. He saw their grins widen. _Aw hell…_

Richie attacked him first, clawing at his sides, and Francis burst out laughing, screaming for him to stop. Virgil took over, finding even more ticklish spots and Francis roared with laughter. "Oh God STOP! Haha…I'm serious…HAHA! _Stop_!"

"You want us to stop?" Virgil asked innocently, breathless from his own laughing. Richie also looked flushed and bright from his own hysterical laughter. They were quite a pair. Francis nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Please stop!"

"Okay, we'll stop," Virgil consented. Then, casting a furtive glance at Richie, who winked back at him, the darker man said, "Okay, we lied." then they attacked the ticklish redhead again.

Breathless from laughing, Francis didn't realize he had been thrown on the bed until he felt the mattress sag beneath their weight. They continued to tickle him until he finally pushed against them. "Okay, _OKAY_! I give up—stop, please…hahaha—stop…" he was breathless and laughing still. Virgil pinned him down and Richie lay next to him on his side. Richie grinned, "Give up?"

"Yes," he nodded, closing his eyes tiredly. Jeez they wore him out… he felt Virgil's fingers interlacing with his own. He opened his eyes and stared into the depths of the other man's eyes, hooded over with desire. Leaning in close, he asked seductively, "Give in?"

"Yes."

Virgil claimed his lips passionately, and Francis' mind traveled back to that one kiss back on the Watchtower. This kiss blew that one away. Virgil broke contact only long enough to ask, "Richie, you don't mind?"

"Not at all," he said nonchalantly. "It might be a welcome change to watch."

"What about you?" Francis asked. Richie captured his lips and ran his hand down his side. "What _about_ me, hottie? I'll get my turn, you'll see."

In light of this, Francis was certain he was going to have one hell of a night. If the landlord complained, the hell with him.

Francis ran his hands over Virgil's clothes and frowned. "Did you have to wear so much?"

"I thought you'd enjoy taking them off."

"Oh. Well in that case…" he made short work of disrobing the electric hero, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Richie seductively took of his own clothes, running hands over his own body, knowing full well what effects he was having on the other two men.

"Does he do this a lot?" the pyro asked, feeling his arousal grow. Virgil nodded wearily, his body under similar effects, "He's such a tease."

"We'll have to punish him later," he said wicked. Virgil smirked. "Absolu—ah!" he arched his back and he felt Francis' teeth graze the collarbone. The redhead soothed the tender flesh with a kiss, then trailed kisses all over the dark pillar. He suckled, nipped and kissed all the right places, emitting moans from his new lover. Meanwhile, Richie was watching the whole thing, getting hotter by the minute.

Virgil had enough and shoved Francis into the mattress. "Uh-uh," he stopped him. "Tonight, I'm exploring _you_." He proceeded to tilt the redhead's head back, the talented tongue drawn to his neck like a magnet, tasting the sweet skin, already glistening from sweat. Francis released a wordless sound that only increased his passions. Virgil's hands were all over his body, and he even added a few sparks in selected places. Francis was squirming beneath him, wild with desire.

"Do that again," he pleaded. Virgil conceded, adding minor shocks near one the more sensitive areas. Richie watched the display, his own member hardening. It took all his willpower to not go and ravage the both of them. But, his fun would have to wait…unfortunately. _Or maybe not_…a sinful idea sprung into his head. Thank god for super genius brains—sex lives would never be the same again.

Francis was aware of what Virgil's hands were doing to him, but he became faintly aware of someone's tongue flicking across his nipple… "Ah, Christ!" he gasped.

"Nope, just me," Richie whispered conspiringly. He returned to his ministrations, relishing in the welcome sight of the squirming man beneath him. Francis ran one hand through Richie's short flaxen hair, chest heaving, eyes hooded over with lust. Then he felt moist warmth close in around him.

"Oh GOD! Virgil!"

He felt Virgil's lips twist into a smile. _If I had known oral sex with him was so damn good…_Francis thought. But his thoughts were abandoned as he sensed how close he was… _oh, Jesus_…

He groaned in protest when Virgil pulled away. The darker man sent Richie a look, but Richie consented, "You go first."

He didn't need to be told a second time, stroking the other man's body, leaving small shocks in desired places. Francis gripped the sheets, arching wildly from the onslaught of his more sensitive areas, letting out a deep groan when he felt the preparation and finally, the sweet intrusion.

Richie was beside himself. It took all of his self-control not to give in to temptation, throw Virgil off Francis, and take him himself. Both heroes had waited for too long for this moment. _But_, Richie reasoned, _you waited two years, you can wait a few minutes, right? Right…? Yeah, didn't think so._ Resigned to this cruel, torturous fate, he laid out next to them, watching hungrily.

Virgil ran his hands all over Francis' body, the redhead's legs entangled in his own, arms wrapped around him, clutching at him, both crying out as their pleasure peaked. Virgil planted sweet kisses on the redhead's moistened face, brushing away a damp lock of hair from his forehead. Francis relished in the embrace,

"My turn…" Richie said suggestively. He pulled Francis up to a sitting position, kissed him roughly, pulling on his hair, hearing him moan into the open-mouthed kiss. Straddling his hips, he suckled on his ear, moving down to nibble the chest and stomach. Their bodies slick with sweat, driving each other crazy, faces flushed, hearts beating wildly, breaths raggedly escaping their lips… Richie pulled away, then laid them down. Francis had decided he'd had enough, then pinned the other man into the mattress, kissing, nibbling, nipping and licking all over the blond man's neck, shoulders, and face, stopping long enough to kiss just under the ear.

Richie was gasping with pleasure, his face flushing furiously from passion. Seeing him close to screaming was a more than welcome sight. Francis leaned down, their tongues dancing, battling for control as he gently pushed himself inside, feeling Richie arch his back beneath him, trying to get as much physical contact as possible. Any resistance fell along with any inhibitions, any doubt, as they made sweet love. Francis whispered his name and wrapped his arms around him closer, increasing rhythm, fingers raking into his back, but the pain only added to the pleasure. Both were surprised when they simultaneously convulsed, Richie crying out his name.

Virgil pulled them into an embrace and kissed both of them, breathing in their unique scents, all three men breathless and tired. They curled up together, slick with sweat, and fell fast asleep, but not before Francis gasped out to both of them, "I love you."

* * *

_Later, 12:35 am_

"So, we're agreed?" Richie asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Virgil said.

"Tell me this," Francis started.

"Shoot," Virgil answered.

"Did Danny set me up?"

"Now why would he do a thing like _that_?" the darker man asked with mock innocence.

"Remind me, next time I see him, to deck him," the pyro requested.

"You know you're grateful…"

"I know, and I am."

"You're very good, by the way," Richie complimented, scooting in closer.

"Thanks. Glad you gave in this time?"

"Definitely. So you're moving in tomorrow?"

"You got enough room?"

"We're all sleeping in the same bed, so I'm guessing that would be the case."

He smirked at snuggled up closer to Virgil, Richie curling up next to him, draping an arm over his waist. Francis rested his head against Virgil's shoulder and asked, "How long did it take you guys to realize…"

"Two days," he replied. "But we weren't sure about you. We wanted to wait until you got out, and when you had settled into your new life."

"Besides," Richie said, leaning forward to kiss the flame-haired man's cheek. "We wanted to be sure you could support yourself."

"You're renting the place aren't you?"

"Leasing. It's better than this one—hell of a lot cleaner."

"Who does the cleaning?"

"It'll be all of us," Virgil said. "All of us responsible for chores, as much as we hate them."

"Do we get lots of visitors?" Francis asked. Virgil smiled knowingly, "'We'?"

"I _will_ be living with you from now on, won't I?"

"Yes."

"So there's a definite 'we' involved here."

Francis felt Richie's grip around him relax as the super genius drifted off again, a sweet adoring smile on his face. Francis couldn't help but smile himself, and laid his head against Virgil's shoulder again, sighing contentedly. Before he drifted off to sleep, Virgil poked him, "Hey."

"Yo."

"I've been thinking."

"Shouldn't do that—it's dangerous."

"Smart ass."

"That's me."

"Look, Wonder Woman once said to me that you'd make a good addition to the League."

Francis was silent. "She's kidding—she has to be."

"I think she was serious."

"What do the others think?"

"Largely opposed, but you're gaining favor. Lucky you…"

"Lucky me," he snorted. Draping an arm around his middle, he said to Virgil, "You really think I could be a hero?"

"You were a hero when you saved us from the Destroyer. So what do you think? Maybe there'll be a Hotstreak superhero?"

"Eh, maybe." He left it at that and drifted off to glorious sleep, a smile on his lips. Virgil gazed down at him, then kissed his forehead, before settling down as well to enjoy the remaining hours of the night, locked in their embraces.

* * *

_**Finis.

* * *

**_

A/N: (Throws confetti and cheers) w00t! Would you believe this is my first completed fanfic? Wow, I need to continue the trend. Thanks to all my reviewers, and all my readers for helping this story to keep going.

Lucky for you, I've been contemplating writing a sequel to this bad boy—a romantic comedy, if that's so hard to believe, given my track record. But let me know what you think. Should I write a sequel? Let me know!


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